The Cure
by Dasselrond
Summary: When Cameron falls ill, will House find that in having the inner strength to save her, he is able to save himself? Hameron, Wilson/Cameron friendship. A new chapter is up!
1. Prologue

I do not own _House, M.D._ or its characters. The following story is from my own, somewhat pure brain, and is merely my attempt to play in the world so cleverly constructed by others. No copy write infringement is intended, and I receive no profit from this writing other than the feedback of my readers – of which I hope there will be much.

This work has not gone through a beta reader, so any errors or mistakes are my own. I am relatively new to watching _House, M.D_. in that I have not caught every single episode, but I have about 50 percent of the episodes under my viewing belt. There will probably be lapses both in canon and in character voice, but positive feedback and _constructive_ criticism is always appreciated. If you cannot offer your criticisms in a helpful manner, I ask that you do not leave a comment at all.

This fiction is Cameron/House romance with a Cameron/Wilson friendship undertone. If these pairing do not appeal to you, do not read it. You have been warned. ~~grin~~

For those of you who have decided to stick around, I hope that you enjoy.

~ Sarah

* * *

_**The Cure**_: Prologue – "Not Average Day at the Office"

* * *

Dr. James Wilson bit into his morning bagel and savored the taste of the homemade salmon cream cheese in his mouth. Yep, this recipe was by far the best. The addition of a touch of chardonnay definitely brought out the taste of the salmon. He leaned back in his desk chair, hands behind his head, and watched the spring leaves on the trees beyond his window flutter in the light breeze.

Ahhh … it was a lovely morning. The warmth of spring had finally started to push back the bitter winds Princeton had suffered that winter, his patients were responding well to their treatments, and even House had been … manageable this week. The diagnostician's latest patient had kept him and his newest crop of ducklings sufficiently occupied that there had been little opportunity for House to excessively harass either Cuddy or Wilson – the clinic patients were a different story, of course.

It was going to be a wonderful day.

A knock at his door pulled Wilson from his reverie. His voice was cheerful as he called out permission to enter.

"Good morning, Allison," he said, rising from his chair to greet the younger ER doctor. He was genuinely pleased to see her. Since she had transferred out of House's Diagnostics Department two years ago, he seldom saw Allison Cameron as often as he did when she worked next door. "Have you eaten yet?" Wilson turned to gesture at the brown bakery bag and Tupperware container on his desk. "I have fresh bagels and homemade cream cheese …"

"No. No thank you, James," Cameron said.

Wilson turned around at the tremor in her voice, and for the first time since she came into his office, he noticed how pale she was, how … scared she looked.

"Allison? What is it?" He stepped closer, genuine concern marring his boyish features.

Cameron stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat and began to pace the length of his office. To Wilson's eyes, she looked as though there were a thousand places she would rather be, but had reluctantly accepted that this was the only place she currently belonged. Suddenly, the words came from her in a rush.

"I was hit in the chest by that damn portable fluoroscope a few weeks ago. The technician looks like he's about twelve, was wheeling it too quickly through the ER, and just ran into me as I was coming out of an exam room. I thought _that_ explained the swelling and the pain. I didn't think anything of it. I mean why should I? I'm only 33. I don't drink or smoke, I eat right, I exercise. My relative risk is almost _non-existent_. My doctor is on vacation, and I couldn't stand the idea of going to someone I didn't know, who didn't know _me_, not about this –"

"Allison!" Wilson interrupted, grabbing her arm as she had started to gesticulate wildly. Her voice had taken on a disturbing note of panic, and she appeared as though she was about to fly apart. He had never seen her so distressed. "What are you talking about?"

Cameron bit her lip, her damp eyes wide as she stared into his. "I found a lump."

Oh, God.

He had been wrong.

It was most definitely _not_ going to be a wonderful day.

* * *

Feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated.


	2. Chapter One: Where to Go From Here

For disclaimers, please refer to the prologue of this story.

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**Chapter One**: Where to Go From Here

* * *

Wilson performed the tests himself. He had done so not only to ensure the accuracy of the tests but also to protect what he could of Cameron's privacy. Hospitals were breeding grounds for gossip, and he wanted to spare her as much of that as he could – for as _long_ as he could.

He had thankfully completed his rounds early. Wilson then called to reschedule the lecture he had been scheduled to give at the University that afternoon. Maybe not the most professional of decisions, but sometimes professionalism had to take a back seat to reality, and in looking at the test results in his hand – Wilson had ordered the lab technicians to bump _this _set of tests to the top of the priority list – this was as real as reality would get for Allison Cameron.

"It's malignant," she said. It wasn't a question; the look on Wilson's face told her everything she needed to know. In truth, however, the tests had merely served to confirm what she knew the moment she had felt the hard lump under her right arm in the shower that morning.

"Invasive Ductile Carcinoma," Wilson confirmed, his own voice tired, "and it's in the lymph nodes."

"IDC … Stage Two, then?" she asked, her voice oddly calm. She hoped to God it wasn't Stage Three or Four. Please not Stage Three or Four.

"Two-B," he clarified. "From the films, it looks like the tumor's just shy of three centimeters."

Cameron rose from her seat across from Wilson's desk and turned to the windows. It was a lovely day outside. The late afternoon sun was sparkling brightly through the new, tender leaves of the giant trees outside the hospital. Though she hadn't set foot outside since arriving that morning, she was sure the air was still warm. She wondered if it would be warm enough to ease the chill that had settled into her heart.

"Will I lose the breast?"

Wilson dropped his eyes to the shiny surface of his desk.

"Yes. You will."

He knew the next question. It was _always_ the next question.

"Will I die?"

Wilson paused. He thought of what he usually told a new patient when faced with this diagnosis. He would provide her with information and statistics about chemotherapy and radiation therapy, the latest research on medications and holistic medicine. The options and treatments were varied and more successful than they had ever been in the past; more and more women were successfully beating back this scourge; he always tried to offer his patients the greatest degree of hope and encouragement for what was sure to be a long and painful process, but there was never a guarantee. Cameron knew that.

Wilson thought about all of the reassuring euphemisms and platitudes he had used in the past, and suddenly they seemed so very hollow and worthless. He could not use them. _Would_ not use them. He liked and respected Allison Cameron too much to evade her question or to candy-coat his answer, so he gave her the only response he could.

"I don't know."

A slight clenching of her shoulders was the only physical sign that she heard his quiet response.

I don't know.

It was an honest response, and realistically the only one he really could give her. She appreciated that. Cameron sighed deeply, trying to calm the fear that had been building inside of her all day, but suddenly it was all too much. She felt dizzy; the walls began to close in on her; she heard nothing but the roar of her own blood pumping through her veins. Gripping the handle of the glass door, she pressed her forehead to the cool surface and began to breathe deeply, struggling to keep her senses.

Wilson jumped up from behind his desk and was at her side in an instant, steadying her with his hands though he doubted she even felt his presence. He urged her to sit down again, but she wouldn't budge. She pressed the palm of her free hand to the glass, letting its coolness seep into her skin. If House or any of his duckling had chosen that moment to look across the shared patio, they would think her a mad woman trying to claw her way out of Wilson's office, and perhaps she was, but eventually the cold surface helped her to come back to herself. The office walls retreated, her breathing evened out, and the loud rushing of her blood receded.

"I'll call Chase," Wilson said, turning from her. "He should be here with you."

"No." His hand paused in picking up the phone, his look puzzled. "We broke up a few weeks ago. We didn't … we didn't part well," she admitted, shaking her head sadly. "Robert couldn't deal with three people in our relationship anymore. I can't blame him for that."

He instinctively knew that the third person she meant was Gregory House. Wilson had long suspected that Cameron hadn't been fully able to leave her feelings for the cantankerous doctor behind when she left the Diagnostics Department, but this was the first confirmation that his suspicions were correct.

She turned from the glass to face him. Her eyes were wide with fear. "James, I need … I need you to … can you do it? Can you be my oncologist?" Her voice was quite, uncertain.

Not 'will you be my oncologist?' '_Can_ you be my oncologist?' The word "can_"_ made all the difference. She knew what she was asking him. Yes, they were colleagues, but they were also friends. She wanted to know if he – who in his own way was just as overly-caring, just as overly-involved with his patients as she – was willing to risk himself and his emotions in treating her knowing that there might just be the chance that they would both suffer through the process and lose out in the end. But no matter the personal cost, there was only one answer to her question.

Wilson took her by the hand and squeezed it encouragingly. "Yes. I can."

Cameron's "Thank you," was more of a sigh than statement, and she did not refuse the comfort of his strong, reassuring embrace.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked when she pulled away. She met his dark eyes directly, and Wilson could see that in the few moments he had held her, she had regained a bit of the spark that was uniquely Cameron. He could tell that she was still afraid, but she was no longer defeated.

Allison Cameron was ready to fight.

* * *

Feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. Fear not, House/Cameron interaction is just ahead ... at least on some level.


	3. Chapter Two: Dining by Firing Squad

A few tidbits before the next chapter:

First, a word about the subject matter of this story. As you know, the major driving conflict in this story is that of Cameron's breast cancer. While it is not common for women as young as 33 to contract this evil disease, it is not unheard of either. Approximately 1 in 229 women from ages 30 – 39 run the risk of getting breast cancer. That risk jumps to approximately 1 in 24 for women ages 40-59. While I myself have been lucky enough at age 37 never to have contracted this form of cancer (and I pray that I never do), in the last few years I have had three women close to me fight this battle. Thankfully, they are all currently winning the fight. One of them was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer, yet has been cancer free for just over a full year. Another friend was just diagnosed a few weeks ago. She is only 36, and the biggest part of her battle is still ahead of her. I urge you all to learn what you can about this disease, and to find out ways that you can help reduce your relative risk of getting breast cancer.

Second, I would like to address the timing of the plotline for this story in light of the events of the most recent episode of _House, M.D_., "Simple Explanation". This story takes place sometime after the events of "The Softer Side" yet before the events depicted in "Simple Explanation". Kutner will be a part of later chapters, and given that this story is "technically" AU, he may be along for the full ride. I don't know yet.

Lastly, I would like to thank my readers for all of the wonderful reviews and for all of the story alerts that have already been given to this tale. I do appreciate it. As with many writers, the more reviews I receive, the more eager I am to write the next chapter. Fan Fiction authors are paid nothing for their efforts. We do it for the simple joy of playing around in the universes created by our favorite shows and movies, but the feedback is always priceless. In many ways, good feedback is better than a paycheck.

Thank you! I hope you enjoy the following chapter.

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Chapter Two: Dining by Firing Squad

* * *

In the week that followed her diagnosis, Wilson and Cameron met several times to formulate a course of treatment to beat back the cancer that had invaded her body; a date was scheduled for her mastectomy – the sooner the better she had told him – and more than once Wilson urged her to take some time away from work to tend to the things that would become more difficult to do immediately following her surgery.

"Work is just about the only thing that's keeping me sane right now, James," she told him. "It gives me something to think about other than the cancer. I don't much care for being home right now. It's just too … empty." She took a bite of the grilled chicken breast on the plate in front of her. They were having lunch together at a little bistro not far from the hospital. The food was excellent, but the service was just slow enough that the grab-and-go crowd at the PPTH usually avoided it in favor of quick-serve deli farther up the street. The place was almost devoid of hospital personnel, and those that were eating thought nothing of the two colleagues enjoying what appeared to be a business lunch.

"You still haven't called your family, have you?"

"That was a little blunt, wasn't it?" Cameron stirred uncomfortably under his gaze.

"And you clearly spent too many years in Diagnostics. Your avoidance is spot on Houseian. You answer a question _with_ a question." He speared a piece of broiled asparagus from his salad, but never turned his eyes from her. Her refusal to contact her parents about her diagnosis had been the source of some conflict between them.

"Don't evade; answer the question," he insisted.

Cameron sipped nervously from her water glass, and then met his gaze directly. "No," she said, her chin sticking out almost defiantly. "I haven't called them."

"Good, God, why not?!" Wilson dropped his fork on the plate with a loud clatter that drew the attention of diners at some of the closer tables. "Allison, you _really_ don't want to go through this alone."

"I won't go through this alone. Not really."

"Have you and Chase reconciled? Will he be helping you out?" Wilson could imagine that such a traumatic experience might bring the couple back together.

"No," she insisted. "No, that chapter of my life is closed." Cameron ran her hand under her long hair and massaged the nape of her neck. She could already feel a headache developing. "I … I haven't even told Chase yet."

"Great! This just keeps getting better." Wilson's frustrated sigh echoed loudly in his own ears. He couldn't for the life of him imagine why she would insist on going through breast cancer treatment without the support of her parents, but he hadn't managed to wriggle the answer from her. Whatever her motivation, Cameron was keeping her own council on the subject. He didn't like it, but he wasn't about to force the reason from her. "So what are your plans? Who are you going to ask to help take care of you after the surgery and for the chemo?" He had to deliberately force his voice to reflect a calm he really didn't feel.

"I've hired a home health care aide."

"The impersonal touch," Wilson muttered. Lovely. "Though I suppose it could be worse. You could have done as House did and simply hired a hooker to make sure you didn't stop breathing in the middle of the night."

The minute he said the words, he wished them back. Cameron's sharp intake of breath signaled her pain at his brutal words. Her eyes were at once both moist with unshed tears and wide with her indignation.

"You bastard! How _dare_ you!" Her whisper was harsh with her anger. Cameron wanted to rage at him at the top of her lungs, but she wasn't about to embarrass herself in front of strangers. "Who are you to judge me? I expect that kind of comment from House, _not_ from you. You're my doctor, and you're _supposed_ to be my friend. When you have stood in my shoes and experienced the absolute terror that has kept me awake at night this last week, then maybe you can criticize my actions, but unless I ask for your opinions on the choices I am having to make in light of the fact that I have just been diagnosed with a serious form of cancer, I would appreciate it if you would just keep your damn, snide comments to yourself."

Grabbing her purse, Cameron pushed away from the table, and without a backward glance stalked out of the restaurant.

"You Idiot!" Wilson chastised himself. Hastily he pulled cash from his wallet and left it behind for the waiter. Snatching up his suit coat from the back of his chair, he ran after her.

"Allison!" he shouted at her rapidly retreating form. She was headed not back to the hospital, but farther up the street in the direction of the Princeton campus. "Allison, please!" He grabbed her arm as he caught up with her and spun her around to face him. Other pedestrians out enjoying the springtime warmth in the busy lunchtime foot traffic knocked into the pair as they passed by, and Wilson quickly pulled her into the relative safety of a nearby boutique's doorway. She reluctantly met his gaze, and in her eyes he saw not only her anger, but her fear and her misery as well.

"I am _so_ sorry." The expression on his face echoed the guilt he felt at his poor choice of words. "I never meant to hurt or insult you," Wilson pleaded. "I just … it's just that I know some of what you're going to experience in the coming months, and the thought of you having to recover with the help of a stranger, it's appalling to me."

"If my parents knew about the cancer, they'd be here on the next flight from Chicago," Cameron admitted. "And it would be fine … for awhile, but I _know_ my parents. They are good, loving, kind people; I couldn't have asked for better, but in the end, it would be me taking care of them as their worry and fear started to get the better of them. I can't do that … not again." She gripped the strap of her purse tightly. "They _can't_ know. Not for now. It was bad enough when David died," she admitted, referencing her long-dead husband. "They loved him so much, too, you see, but I can't take care of _everyone_ anymore. I'm just not strong enough. I need someone to take care of me now. If that someone has to be a hired nurse, then so be it."

Wilson absorbed her words and while he couldn't completely agree with her choice, he did understand her reasoning. Coming to a decision, he slid his hand down her arm and took her small hand in his. "Will you let _me_ take care of you?"

The sincerity in his voice made her smile brilliantly, but then she laughed. "Oh, Jimmy. Thank you for the offer, really. I know that you would take very good care of me. Far better than I could receive from any home nurse, but it would be an absolute disaster."

Wilson's eyes were now the ones to widen in surprise. "Why?" he demanded, his voice carrying a bit of her earlier resentment.

She looked up at the tall man, a knowing grin replacing her smile. "Can you really stand there and tell me that given your history with and romantic tendencies towards Damsels-in-Distress your taking care of a cancer-stricken female friend with no one else to rely on is a _good_ idea?"

Wilson stood in silence a long moment, then his lips started to twitch. Before long he was laughing heartily. "I see your point. No, I can't say that in light of the evidence it would be a good idea at all."

Cameron sobered and gripped his hand tightly in hers. "Besides, I could never take advantage of you that way. Not after Amber. Not after Chase. It wouldn't be intentional, but it _would_ happen. You'd get too involved. You always do. I wouldn't be in a position to stop you from falling too far, and I can't make that kind of commitment to any other man again."

Wilson knew that she wasn't referencing the cancer. "House would always be there," he said.

Cameron nodded and sighed. "I love him." Her voice was firm, full of conviction in spite of the fact that it was the first time she had ever given voice to her feelings – even to herself. She looked around her, half surprised that the sky hadn't fallen on top of her.

"He doesn't deserve you." Such a statement might be betraying the friendship Wilson had with the diagnostician, but it was what he felt.

"I don't know what that word means anymore, Jimmy. Does he deserve me? Do I deserve him?" Her gaze, like her thoughts, turned inward and self-reflective. "For Pete's sake, I'm not a saint! I'm a woman who's made her fair share of mistakes, too. In some ways I've probably hurt him far more than he has ever hurt me." She leaned against the display window in the doorway and sighed. "Who's to say how much any of us deserves in this life? I don't think I deserved to get breast cancer at age 33, but I did. I think it's more of doing the best you can with what you're given, and I would give House everything, hold nothing back, but what would he choose to do with what I gave? That's what I don't know." She ran a hand across her brow and looked again at Wilson. "It doesn't matter much anyway. House doesn't believe that he's worthy of another person's love, and until he does, anything I say or do is of little consequence."

"That's a hell of a place to be stuck," Wilson said, his voice full of empathy.

"I can't be with him, and I can't walk away from him. I tried, but whether he knows it or not, House keeps pulling me back to him like the tide to the moon." Cameron's tone had turned maudlin, and Wilson knew that keeping her spirits up was key at this point.

"Come on," he said, wrapping her arm through his. He escorted her back onto the sidewalk and headed in the direction of the University. "We've got 45 minutes before we meet with Cuddy, and I'm still hungry. There's a hot dog stand outside the Frist Campus Center, and I'm going to treat you to a foot long with everything on it."

Cameron laughed in spite of herself and turned her face to the warmth of the sunshine. "Best offer, I've had all day. Thank you, Jimmy" she said, her last words filled with sincerity and not just for the offer of the hot dog. "But there's one last thing you should know."

"What?"

"If you _ever_ mention that damn hooker again, I will strip you naked, duct tape your mouth, tie you to your desk chair, roll you down the hallway, and sell admissions tickets to members of the nearest S&M club."

"What hooker?" Wilson asked, his brown eyes filled with not entirely counterfeit fear.

**

That afternoon, they met with a stunned Cuddy to make plans for the time when Cameron would no longer be able to meet the physical demands of being a physician in the busy Emergency Department. Cameron insisted that she be allowed to continue treating patients, but fully understood that she would have to take a less hands-on approach to practicing medicine.

The Chief of Medicine was worried that patients would shy away from a doctor who would clearly be ill herself, and Cameron couldn't disagree with her. Instilling confidence and reassurance in a patient was just as important to his or her recovery as the medicine and treatments he or she received. Wilson argued that Cameron's illness might serve to inspire patients, too, but Cameron sided with Cuddy. She would have to find a less visible way to practice medicine for awhile.

Cuddy sat behind her desk while Wilson paced in front of it, each offering and refusing possible solutions to the problem. While the two exchanged ideas, Cameron, sitting on the comfortable sofa, let her mind wander away from the conversation. She had done a lot of that in the last week. It seemed as though her mind just couldn't stay focused on one thing for more than a few minutes anymore. She had spent a lot of time thinking about the past, and things she should have said or done differently. It wasn't so much that she was regretting past mistakes, but rather she was wondering about how she could use what she had done to transform what she should do in the future, for Cameron fully intended to _have_ a future.

More and more, her thoughts had focused on House. Just a few weeks ago, so much mental energy spent on the irascible doctor would have unsettled her, but since her diagnosis Cameron had accepted that House was by far the most unfinished part of her life. She had finally admitted to herself that she had left his practice not to support Chase or to uphold some moral imperative on her part. Those had been excuses. She had run. She had given up. She hadn't fought for what she wanted. She may not have won in the end, but she never gave herself, or him, the chance to see if she _could_ win.

As she considered House's current spot in her thoughts, Cameron watched the hustle and bustle of the hospital lobby outside Cuddy's office and the Clinic waiting area beyond. As usual, it was outrageously busy, and, as usual, House had sent one of his ducklings to cover clinic duty in his stead. It was Kutner this time. She watched as the young doctor leaned against the Nurse's Station, scribbling madly inside a patient's file before grabbing another one and turning to call out a name to the room at large. A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered the number of times she had found herself in exactly the same position.

Suddenly the solution became clear. Oh, it was definitely going to cause waves, a tsunami more than likely, but it solved more than just the problem of 'How to Keep Cameron Practicing Medicine.' For the first time since her diagnosis, she knew exactly where she needed to be – home. She laughed aloud at the simplicity of the solution.

The cheerful sound drew the attention of the two arguing doctors who looked at her with looks of open curiosity. "What's so funny?" Wilson finally asked.

"I have an idea," Cameron said. Crossing to Cuddy's desk, she proceeded to outline her idea to the two doctors. By the time she was done, Wilson looked gob smacked, but Cuddy was grinning just as widely as Cameron had been.

"It's brilliant," Cuddy agreed at last. "I'll set up the meeting for tomorrow morning."

"It's insane!" Wilson argued. "Your surgery is the day after tomorrow, and once you start the full treatment, you'll need to _rest_, Allison, conserve your energy, not add to your stress level."

"Actually, I think that this will be exactly what I need," she said. Famous last words, Cameron admitted silently, but she had to try.

For both their sakes, she had to try.

* * *

I promise that House/Cameron is coming, but I need to set the story up in a way that makes sense. I do so hate to rush things. ~~grin~~


	4. Chapter Three: A Little Illumination

This chapter was a little tougher to write. Getting House's "voice" right is such a challenge. I hope that I got it somewhere in the ball park.

Thanks again for all the feedback. The more the better, so if you like the story, but haven't posted so yet, I am eager to read what you think.

Thanks!

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Little Illumination, Please**

* * *

Looking at the list of symptoms on the white board, Taub had no choice but to sigh. "I hate to even mention the possibility … but it could be Lupus."

Thirteen groaned in response. Kutner and Foreman rolled their eyes at the suggestion. House merely glared, his 'You have _got_ to be kidding me!' implied in his piercing gaze.

"The symptoms fit!" Taub insisted, pointing at the offending chart.

House turned back to the board, dry erase marker in hand, unwilling to entertain such an asinine diagno – he looked at the symptoms again and raised a brow at what he saw. I'll be damned, he thought. It actually _could_ be Lupus.

Turning to order his team to check the patient's "sed rate" and run an AMA test, House's attention was captured by the seeming convoy of doctors in the hallway about to enter his lair. Cuddy and Wilson with Cameron and Chase in tow, he noted. Oooh! Fun time!

"Well, if it isn't the Wicked Witch of the West, Scarecrow, Dorothy, and oh, her little wombat, too," he groused as the quartet entered. "The Emerald City is closed to interlopers."

"You didn't show up for our meeting this morning, so I brought the meeting to you," Cuddy said, choosing to ignore the Oz references.

"Sorry, had to talk to a man about a balloon ride. Returning to Kansas, ya know."

"We're here to discuss a patient," Wilson said, interrupting what was sure to be a continuation of L. Frank Baum allusions. He held up the medical file in his hand.

"Have a patient," House indicated the incomplete differential behind him, "so scurry along back to the evil castle." He shooed them away with his hands.

"House, Cuddy's brought along an oncologist, an ER doctor, and a surgeon. Shouldn't you at least look at the file," Foreman urged patiently.

"Oh, all right!" House quickly skimmed Cuddy's tight-fitting skirt with a critical eye. "Kinda hard to mount your broom in that get-up, isn't it?" he asked with a lurid grin as he snatched the folder out of Wilson's hand and began to scan through the contents.

As usual, he hadn't bothered to look at the name on the file, Cameron noticed. Patients weren't interesting or important to House. It was their symptoms that fascinated him. While he read what she knew he would find to be a "dull" case to be sure, she scanned the now crowded conference room. Chase had taken the seat farthest from the door against which she leaned. He was as much in the dark as to the meaning of Cuddy's summons as the rest of the group, but the way in which he had patently ignored her on their journey to House's domain told Cameron that he was still very bitter about the way their relationship had ended. Forced into a meeting held in the office of the man whose echo had plagued that relationship on one level or another for two years couldn't have been easy for Chase, and Cameron felt sorry for him. Nevertheless, he would have to be told about her condition, and this was a conversation she only wanted to have once.

"Give me a break!" House's drawl brought her attention back to the man at the front of the room. He glared at Cuddy and Wilson before tossing the folder on the table in front of the ducklings and grabbing his cane from where it hung on the white board. Thirteen picked up the file and began to read. "Why are you wasting my time with _breast cancer_?" House demanded. "Invasive Ductile Carcinoma, stage two. Big deal. Nothing unique _or_ interesting."

"There's got to be more to it than that. Who's the patient?" Kutner asked, looking at the file from over Thirteen's shoulder.

"I am," Cameron said, stepping forward. Her voice echoed in the suddenly silent room.

"Allison …" Chase's voice died away. He just didn't know what to say. Neither did any of the others. Taub's mouth hung open a little; Foreman and Kutner were simply stunned. Thirteen's expression quickly shifted from shock to empathy; she knew what it was like to live with a potentially deadly disease.

Cameron then looked at House.

He said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes as he stared at her that held her attention, so she stared back, unflinchingly, as she tried to figure out just what it was.

"Wha … what's the course of treatment?" Foreman asked when he finally found his voice. House dropped his gaze from Cameron's, almost as if he was grateful for an excuse, and reached again for the file that Thirteen had abandoned on the glass table. Wilson began to outline the plan that Cameron had agreed he could share with the others.

"Mastectomy," House interrupted before Wilson could begin his recitation. He held the specifics in his hand, but he didn't need to reference them. He knew the drill.

"Yes," Cameron confirmed, her eyes fixed on his.

"When?"

"Tomorrow." It was if they were suddenly the only two people in the room.

"Chemotherapy and probably Radiotherapy will follow," Wilson continued, though House had turned from the group to face the windows, Cameron's medical file all but forgotten in his hand. She alone noticed that he now leaned heavily on his cane. Something he only did when in serious pain.

"Dr. Cameron has requested that she continue to work during her treatment," Cuddy said at long last, "but the Emergency Department won't be an option for long."

"Too physically demanding with the chemotherapy treatments," Chase muttered. He was now in "doctor" mode, but he realized that Cameron had asked him here out of courtesy for their former relationship.

"Which is why we're here talking to you," Cuddy said. She wrapped her hands over the back of an empty chair. Her voice took on her administrator's 'Let's work on this together' tone. "We'd like to work out an exchange program of sorts with the Diagnostic Department, so that when Dr. Cameron is no longer to treat patients in the ER, she will move back here, and you three," she indicated the ducklings, "will rotate weekly in and out of Emergency."

"Seems reasonable." Taub was the first to respond.

"That way you can keep experienced physicians in the ER, yet nothing is lost long-term from diagnostics," Kutner added. He liked the idea.

"It's not like Cameron isn't familiar with how things work around here." Thirteen's voice was neutral, but everyone knew that the 'things' she means was really just one thing – House.

"When will we start?" Kutner asked.

"When her looks start to scare the patients." House's voice was harsh yet hollow. At the same time he managed to convey to his team that he approved of Cuddy's suggestion. While the administrator might be his boss, his team still answered to him. They wouldn't move without his approval.

The crowd of doctors started in surprise at the insensitive comment, though they all should have seen something like it coming. Cameron, however, chuckled. How typically House.

"When I lose my hair," she clarified, indicating the long, blonde locks that fell about her shoulders. "Hard to have faith in your doctor's ability to cure you when she can't even manage to cure herself." She smiled ruefully. "I thank you all for your willingness to help. The next few months are going to be awful, I'm sure, but it's good to know that I have your support." She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and shrugged. "Anyway … I'm due for some more paperwork and lab tests before tomorrow morning, so …" Cameron opened the door and strode purposefully past the glass windows of the Conference Room to the elevator. She didn't look back, so she didn't see House limp silently past Cuddy and Wilson to his office door.

Leaning hard with his free hand against the glass as well as against the usual support of his cane, House cocked his head to the side, but did not turn to face his team. "Run the tests for Lupus," he said quietly, and then closed the office door behind him and pulled the blinds shut to ward off the gazes of the others. It was a signal to all present that the meeting was officially over.

**

Other than periodic consults with his team over the increasingly erratic condition of their current patient – turned out that, once again, it was _not_ Lupus – House spoke to no one for the rest of the day. He sat in his desk chair, facing the window, ear buds snugly in place, and thought. He sat long enough that the sky outside his office eventually darkened, and the hallways behind him gradually emptied.

He thought about everything … and nothing.

House thought about Stacey and that dweeb of a husband that he had pushed her back to. It was for the best. Maybe. Definitely.

He thought about Amber, the cut-throated bitch. She didn't have to die. It should have been him. That wasn't guilt talking, just reality.

Is _next_ Tuesday the release for _Jamie Gallagher's Monster Truck Mania Bash_ for the PSP? House was getting tired of waiting for it to come out, and so were the tech-geeks he kept harassing at Best Buy. He tried to figure out just when dispensing free medical advice became so offensive. In this economy they should have been grateful that he had saved them the price of a consult with a dermatologist. Really, a little Retin-A would do the trick. His last pizza had had a better complexion.

He thought about Wilson and their friendship, and how Amber's death had nearly driven a permanent wedge between them.

Variable pricing for iTunes was highway robbery, pure and simple. Time for a boycott! He wouldn't pay them a single penny more! Shit. Forgot to download the latest album from _The Fray_. Well, who says a boycott has to start _right_ now.

House thought about his mother, always loving, always patient, always suffering in her efforts to bring back together her son and the man who was her husband.

He thought about the funeral of the man he had once called "Dad", and how his death should have liberated House from what once was, but, save for his reconciliation with Wilson, had served to only chain him more firmly to his past.

He worried that _General Hospital_ would go the way of the Dodo like _Guiding Light_ had. What would he do with his afternoons? He supposed that _Young and the Restless_ wasn't too bad, but he wouldn't waste his time with _Days of Our Lives_. The character of John Black was just too nauseatingly perfect. Who _looks_ like that, anyway?

He thought about Cuddy. He never should have gone to her house that night. He had known that even as he had knocked on her door. Their kiss had been a mistake, too.

Passionate? Yes.

Arousing? Mildly so.

However, spending hour or two in her bed again would have only been a distraction, and House was tired, so damn _tired_ of mere distractions. He craved something tangible, something … some_one_ substantial.

And so he had left Cuddy alone in her entryway leaving little more than a "good night" in his wake.

Mostly, however, House thought about _her_.

He had always prided himself on the power of his mind. It was how he was able to excel in his profession. It was how he had earned his reputation, his name.

Clarity of mind, that is.

Even in the Vicodin-induced miasma which had been both his prison and his salvation all these long years, his ability to use his mind, to deduce, to deconstruct, to analyze, to visualize in picture-_perfect_ details all that had been said and done or _not_ said and done had never wavered – except where Allison Cameron was concerned.

She had stood in his conference room only a few hours ago – ever lovely, ever-untouchable – but he now struggled to picture that loveliness in his mind's eye. All of their conversations, their interactions, their flirtations over the last five years had always come to him not as detailed images but rather as quick, elusive flashes as though every word, every glance, every touch was some separate clip from some agonizing television show that had been strung together like one of those ridiculous music videos that the clinic nurses were always watching on YouTube.

Now she was sick. Not with a puerile, nose-dripping cold, but seriously ill with a disease as mysterious and potentially deadly as those she had help him diagnose as his Fellow.

Still he couldn't picture her face clearly.

If the image was _already_ hazy, what would happen to it if he could no longer refresh that likeness with the sight of the original?

"Damn it!" House slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. Unable to contain his anger and frustration any longer he grabbed the first thing his hand came in contact with and threw it against the thick window.

He was showered with the shattered remains of his PSP.

"Fuck." House slumped back into his chair. The explosion of his anger left him deflated, and idly he bushed at the pieces of plastic and glass that covered his pants.

So much for _Monster Truck Mania Bash_.

He fished his Vicodin bottle out of his jacket pocket, snapped the lid off with his thumb, and popped one of the white pills into his mouth. Rather than swallow it reflexively as he typically did, House allowed it to roll around in his mouth. As it slowly dissolved, the bitterness coated his tongue. His jaw clenched at the taste, but he permitted it to linger a moment longer before letting it slide down his throat.

_This_ bitter pill he could swallow.

A soft rattle from the drawn vertical blinds behind him signaled the arrival. In all actuality, House was surprised that his friend had held off as long as he had.

Wilson lingered a moment at the door. House's silhouette was barely visible against the equally dark night beyond the windows. An occasional glow from House's iPod was really the only visible clue that the office wasn't empty. When his eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, Wilson settled himself in the chair opposite his friend and propped his feet up on the desk.

"Comfortable?" House asked with a sincere lack of courtesy. He didn't turn from the windows.

"Not overly. You?"

House's silence was his answer.

"Allison's been officially admitted to the Oncology Ward. Surgery's in the morning."

"So it's _Allison_ now, is it?" A slight curve pulled at the corner of Wilson's lip. House clearly didn't hear the jealousy that tinged his words. Good.

"It's been Allison for a few years now," Wilson admitted. He carefully kept his tone as neutral as possible. Pushing House too far, too quickly could be just as disastrous as not pushing him far enough.

"I'd imagine that her room is just crawling with Camerons right now. All falling over each other to be the first to get poor, sick, little Allie some fresh ice chips or another cup of Jello."

Yep. Definitely jealous.

"Cameron was her husband's name, actually." Wilson had to completely suppress his grin when his friend looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Didn't know that, did you? Wow! The famous Gregory House, diagnostician, actually missed a clue. Granted, it's just a _name_, but given your tendency to know everybody's business all of the time, it's rather shocking. I mean, she's been here five years, after all."

House growled in response and turned back to the window.

"Anyway, to answer your question, no. The room isn't crawling with her family; Simpson, by name, if you must know."

"Probably arriving on the Red-Eye so that they can be the first thing she sees after having had her breast lopped off by an oncologist with an over-developed sense of empathy. How touching." House was sorely tempted to pop another Vicodin into his mouth, but for some reason he didn't.

"She hasn't told them she's sick." Wilson said, unwilling to allow his friend to wallow any further. "She's alone, House."

"Oh please," House said, swinging around in his chair, face full of disbelief and irritation. "Cameron's _never_ alone. Miss Mary Sunshine? Miss Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor? She's got the Wombat, and I'll bet at least half this staff has already offered to hold her hand when she starts puking up her guts from the chemotherapy. _You_ even offered to 'be there for her', didn't you? If you're not careful, Jimmy, you'll end up with Soon-to-Be Ex-Wife Number Four."

"I did ask her," Wilson readily admitted. "She turned me down flat. She's turned down everyone's offer. With the exception of Taub and Kutner offering to cover her shifts while she recuperates from the surgery, she's refused all help at home. She's hired a home nurse."

"You sure the cancer hasn't spread to her brain?"

"Positive. Why?"

"Because she's acting like a moron!" House was amazed that Cameron would choose to isolate herself so completely. "Why isn't her family here? Where's Chase for Pete's sake?" he demanded.

"You really need to stop hiding in the dark." Wilson ignored House's questions.

"The light was hurting my eyes."

"No. The light forces you to see what you'd rather not look at. There's a difference." Wilson got up from the chair and headed to the door. "As to her family, you'd have to ask Allison that. She's in room 313. As far as Chase is concerned, she broke up with him a few weeks ago. So when I say she's alone, House. I mean she's _alone_." Wilson disappeared through the door.

"She's an idiot," House muttered to no one.

Damn it. What in the hell was going through that prostitute-blonde head of hers. Clearly the hair dye had started to affect her ability to think rationally. He'd warned her it would come to this.

For all his mental protestations, however, the more House thought about the whole situation, the more unsettled he became. Grabbing his cane, he stood up from his chair and groaned in pain. When would he ever learn that sitting for over 12 hours without moving was really _not_ a good idea?

Now who's the idiot, he wondered.

He quickly popped the second Vicodin and tried to massage some feeling back into his damaged leg. "Prop the damn thing up next time, moron," he chided himself.

When the pain had lessened enough for him to walk, House pulled his backpack over his shoulder. Stepping out of his office, he blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the light of the hallway.

Leaning heavily on his cane, House looked first one way down the hall and then the other.

He hated the cliché of metaphorical crossroads, but this was one even _he_ couldn't ignore. To his right lay the elevator and home. To his left, room 313 and Allison Cameron.

House paused, considered, and then with a deep breath, made his decision.

He chose to ignore it.

House turned to his right.

* * *

Just a few personal notes: I love the tech guys at Best Buy; I will still pay for downloads off of iTunes; and I personally _adore_ those YouTube music videos. I just wish I knew how to make them.


	5. Chapter 4: He Couldn't Make Left Turns

It's been a crazy few days at work, but I managed to eek this out as best I can. I hope that you enjoy. The next installment is probably a day or two away. Though it is the weekend, I have essays stacking up that need to be graded. I'll do what I can.

Don't forget though, the more feedback I get, the more excited I am to write, so the sooner you get more to read. ~~beg~~

* * *

**Chapter Four: He Couldn't Make Left-Hand Turns**

* * *

Cameron spent the rest of the morning filling out consent forms and undergoing a final round of tests in preparation for her surgery. It was a totally different experience being on the patient end of an illness, and she gained a new appreciation for the nurses and technicians who walked her through the process. She had never fully understood how much a sympathetic ear or a friendly pat on the arm could make a patient feel better – until she was that patient. 'Doctors make the worst patients' so the old adage went, but Cameron was determined to try to defy the stereotype; especially in light of the kindness shown to her that afternoon.

She then spent a few hours in the ER, catching up on paperwork that she hadn't wanted to leave for Kutner or Taub. Dinner shared with Wilson and Cuddy in the cafeteria rounded out the day, and when they had finished, Wilson escorted her to admissions and then to her room.

"I'm here for a few hours yet, checking on other patients, but I'll stop by before I head home," Wilson had told her before leaving her in the capable hands of his Oncology nursing staff. It wasn't long before Cameron was settled in bed, monitors keeping an eye on her vitals, peripheral line inserted into a vein on her hand waiting until such time as she was hooked up to a bag of D5W solution to keep her hydrated and her blood sugar up once oral liquids were cut off in a few hours.

Foreman had been the first to come and wish her well with her surgery. He left with promises to help out with whatever she needed. It amazed her sometimes how far their relationship had come since their first years together as House's Fellows. He grasped her hand firmly in support before he headed home to Thirteen.

Another hour found Chase at her bedside. They spoke quietly together. Apologies for past mistakes that neither had been willing to listen to before. He spoke of reconciliation, as she knew he would, but she refused, and he was grateful. Their affair was of the past, but they both agreed on a friendship for the future. He kissed her forehead in parting, and promised to be there in the morning before her surgery.

Cameron tried reading a book, a fluffy bit of fiction that she thought would distract her during her recovery, but it wasn't long before she was distracted from her distraction, and the book lay forgotten on her lap.

She thought not about the cancer or her surgery; she had spent over a full week of sleepless nights on that subject, and there really wasn't much else to think about on that subject until after the mastectomy was complete.

No, tonight her thoughts were all about House.

Cameron had fully intended to speak with him personally once the final blood work was finished, but time had gotten away from her, and she never made it back to his office. She wasn't foolish enough to think that he would show up in her hospital room as the others had, but she did wonder about his reaction to her diagnosis. Once he had heard the news, House had appeared … lost somehow, as if his mind was incapable of wrapping itself around the information he had been provided. For a man who flourished on solving the puzzle, she could only imagine the frustration he must be going through if her assessment was correct. His eyes, as they had looked into hers, had seemed bewildered.

"How's it going?" Wilson asked entering the room.

"It goes," Cameron answered with a shrug of her shoulders. House will have to wait … again, she thought.

"Bored yet?"

"Out of my mind, but I think I'll probably look on my boredom with a certain degree of fondness by this time tomorrow." In school she had been taught that thoracic surgeries were among the most painful due to the number of nerves found in the chest. This had been confirmed numerous times by patients, and she wasn't looking forward to proving them correct.

"Probably." Wilson looked around the room and at his shoes guiltily. She had learned over the years that it was his tell-tale sign that he wanted to share important information, but was concerned as to how it would be received.

"What did you do?" Cameron asked, instantly suspicious.

"Has … has House stopped by?"

"No," she responded with a touch of impatience to her voice. "What did you _do_, Jimmy?"

"I talked to him about you … about everything to do with this," he said, gesturing to her and to the room at large. "I suggested that he come to talk to you. I can't _believe_ he didn't."

Cameron sighed. "He can't be forced into anything. You know that. If he wants to talk, it's not like he doesn't know where to find me." She tried not to let her disappointment show.

Wilson thought for a moment, and then nodded in agreement. Maybe it had been pointless to try to talk sense into House. For a man as brilliant as he was, House could be incredibly thickheaded when dealing with his own feelings for others. It wasn't that the man didn't care; he just hadn't a clue as to how to open up and _show_ he cared. He sighed with acceptance, looked at Cameron, and then dropped a small paper cup onto the overbed table in front of her.

"What's this?" she asked. She picked up the cup and inspected the contents.

"Something to help you sleep, if you want it." He poured some water into her cup. "If you're going to take it, you'll need to do so in the next hour. After that, you're NPO."

"Thanks." She shook the pill inside of its container, undecided. Wilson studied her as she studied the pill. He really wished that House would pull his head out of his ass long enough to see, to really _see_ the opportunity for happiness that lay just outside his grasp. One move, even the slightest effort that showed he cared, and Cameron would be his.

"Well, I need to get going," Wilson said, squeezing her shoulder. "I'll see you first thing in the morning."

"Good night, Jimmy," Cameron said. Her eyes tracked him as he left the room and walked down the hall before returning to the cup she held in her hand. She turned it upside down on the table in front of her, and then pulled the cup away. The little peach-colored pill spun slowly on the surface for a moment.

Whatever it was that Wilson had said to House, it still hadn't been enough to help him find his way to the Oncology Ward. Disappointment settled into Cameron's heart, but she didn't know who she was more disappointed in. At least House was staying true to form. For her own part … hell, who was she trying to fool? She _had_ been silly enough to hope that House would come to visit her.

Enough of this, she decided. Popping the sleeping pill into her mouth, Cameron swallowed it dry, a deliberate homage to the man who had plagued her thoughts enough for one day.

Pressing the button on the rail of the bed, she shut off the light behind her, leaned against the pillow and closed her eyes, waiting for the medicine to take effect.

Good night, you son-of-a bitch, she thought with affection. God, she was a sad case.

**

House leaned on his cane outside of Cameron's room, wondering for the hundredth time just why he was here. He had been halfway home on his motorcycle when a sudden U-Turn through a red light found him on the opposite side of the street heading back to PPTH.

Now he stood, helmet in hand, watching her through the glass as she slept. The floor nurse mentioned to him that Cameron had taken something to help her sleep. House didn't know why she'd think that he'd care one way or the other about the sedative, but as five minutes of watching turned to twenty, he supposed that it was just as well. If Cameron woke up now, she'd probably demand to know why he was there.

He could almost hear her annoyingly sexy voice "coo", "ooh", and "ahh" about how much she appreciated his concern. Except that he couldn't think of a single time in which she had ever "cooed", or "oohed", or "ahhed".

Nevertheless, he didn't have the answers to the questions she was sure to ask. Mainly, 'why are you here?' Hell, he already felt like a stalker as it was.

Cameron, however, was not sleeping peacefully, he noticed. Her brow was furrowed in much the same way it was whenever she was deep in thought. The frown on her lips was the one she used whenever he had done something to annoy her. Needless to say, House was more than a little familiar with that particular expression.

Even in what was supposed to be a drug-induced sleep, she clearly couldn't switch off her brain. Wilson should have prescribed a couple of fingers of scotch, too. She'd be out like a light.

"Always said you thought too damn much," he muttered, stepping quietly into the room. He wasn't in the least bit tempted to look at her medical chart; he knew there wouldn't be anything interesting to read until tomorrow. Instead, he found himself gravitating to her bedside – to check the monitors to which she was hooked up, of course.

Pulse ox was fine; blood pressure looked good, but her heart rate was too damn slow. He set both his cane and his helmet on the foot of the bed, and reached for the medical chart he had ignored, skimming its contents until he found what he was looking for.

Asymptomatic Bradycardia.

He looked again as the monitor blinked the rate … 44 … 46 … 45 ... 45 … 46 … 43 …

A normal heart rate for her. Slow, but normal.

Yeah, if you're hibernating. Can't do anything the usual way, can you?

Cameron stirred, and House froze. She had shifted slightly, her troubled face now turned more directly toward him. Three slow, steady breaths later, House was convinced she would not wake up. He looked closely at her. The large bed all but dwarfed her petite frame. For the first time she seemed … fragile to him. House frowned. He knew that she would grow only more fragile in the coming weeks as her body dealt with the after-effects of the chemotherapy and radiation therapy.

A lock of her blonde hair had fallen across her cheek when she had turned.

House stared at it.

He really hated her as a blonde. The color was so common, and Allison Cameron was anything but common. Why she didn't see that, he didn't know.

Probably because you never said anything, you moron. You don't even _like_ her, remember.

Yeah right.

Though he hated the color of her hair, House hated what would happen to it even more.

Without thinking, he reached out his hand and lightly fingered the strands. Silk was not as soft, he realized. Such a waste. He carefully tucked the lock behind her ear. He then brushed his fingers against her soft cheek and across her full lips. The tension in her face seemed to ease a bit, her brow less wrinkled, and he half expected her to stir again. When she didn't, House took another risk.

Looking around to ensure he had no witnesses, House leaned over, paused a moment in indecision, then pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Seemed he had turned to the left after all.

Suddenly uncomfortable with his own actions, House quickly grabbed his cane and motorcycle helmet and limped quietly from the room.

* * *

**Review! Review! Review! You _know_ you want to! **~~grin~~


	6. Chapter 5: A Recovering Misanthrope

Greetings! Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate.

I apologize that this chapter is so short, but I wanted to give you something to "chew on" before the weekend was over. Thanks again for all of the wonderful bits of feedback. It's always so exciting to come home from work to read what everyone has to say.

For those of you who might feel that I need to "get to it" between House and Cameron, I'm sorry, but the plot has to develop slowly for it to really work. House has too much baggage he needs to drop off before he can throw himself into Cameron's arms. At least, in my opinion, he does. Fear not, though. Good things come to those who wait.

Feedback is crucial to the further breeding of my plot bunnies, so don't forget to feed the author. Thanks!

I hope that you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Not-Quite-So-Clinical Observations of a Reforming Misanthrope**

* * *

"C-cold," Cameron responded when asked by the nurse how she was feeling. Her discomfort was short-lived, however; a heated blanket was quickly tucked around her body where she lay on a narrow table in the freezing operating room.

The paper cap that covered her long hair rustled as she turned her head to look at the surgical team bustling about in their final preparations. She knew these people, had worked with them for years, but her mind was hazy from the sedative she had been given in pre-op, and it was difficult for her to recognize the faces behind the masks.

Underneath the blanket, Cameron's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as much from her fear as from the chill in the room. Tentatively, she pressed the palm of her left hand against her right breast. Her fingers followed the contours of the tissue, tracing its curve, testing its weight, gauging its size, imprinting into her memory that which would soon be gone from her forever. Earlier that morning, Cameron had purposefully averted her gaze when Wilson had diagrammed his incisions on her breast with a scrub-resistant surgical marker. She had thought to distance herself from the process. If she didn't think about it as _her_ breast that he was tattooing, maybe it wouldn't matter as much; maybe she wouldn't be as afraid; maybe …

There were no "maybes" anymore.

Her physician's mind had long since come to terms with the medical necessity of this procedure. There was a life to save, after all, but now that the lights of the OR were staring her in the face, it was her woman's mind that began to panic.

She didn't feel the tears that had started to slide from the corners of her eyes until they were being dabbed away with a piece of surgical cotton.

"It'll be okay, Allison," Wilson whispered in her ear from behind his mask as he blotted first one cheek than the other. "You trust me, don't you?"

Cameron knew that if she spoke, she would lose what little control she still had and break down completely, so she only nodded. She trusted Wilson completely. It was why she had come to him when she first discovered the lump. It was only that she was so –

"It's okay to be scared, but we'll take good care of you," he said. His brown eyes held all of the compassion that he tried to express in his voice. Wilson straightened and nodded to his team.

It was time to begin.

"Okay, Allison, I'm going to inject some more of the sedative into your IV," said Christian Padilla, her anesthesiologist, from somewhere behind her. "I want you to start counting backwards from 100 …"

Wilson was surveying the instruments on his tray when a sudden movement from above caught his attention. His eyes widened slightly at what he saw, and he held out a hand to stop Padilla's administration of the drug.

Smiling, Wilson bent close to Cameron again. "Look up," he said.

Cameron's eyes followed Wilson's gloved finger as he pointed to the observation suite above the operating room. Between one heartbeat and the next, all of the fear and tension from the last eight, unbearable days drained from her body.

She smiled.

"Ready now?" Wilson asked, taking in her smile with one of his own.

"Yes," she whispered, sparing him only a quick glance.

Cameron felt the sedative enter her system almost immediately, yet she dutifully counted as she had been instructed. When she finally slipped into unconsciousness, Cameron took with her the tall, rumpled, scruffy image of Gregory House leaning on his cane in the observation room as he watched over her.

**

Yesterday, she had stood stoically in his office and told them of her illness, had unflinchingly faced the reality of her mastectomy while he had struggled with the mere notion of it. Today, however, she was afraid. Though House was separated from her by 20 feet and a glass partition, her tension was palpable.

Wilson leaned over her now, dabbing at her face and eyes with cotton. Was she crying?

Why is she crying?

Because she's scared to death, you idiot. You were too, remember?

The fear that he had experienced at the thought of losing his leg to the infarction was something House had always tried very deliberately _not_ to remember, but in keeping the leg, he was reminded every day, every hour, of that fear as well as the never-ending, agonizing results he suffered because he gave into that fear.

Cameron had faced the same decision. Keep the breast and risk and almost certain death, or lose the breast and win the probability of keeping her life.

His leg. Her breast.

House tried to convince himself that they weren't all that different, really. What's one body part compared to another, after all?

Nothing. Everything.

It was just a leg "they" had told him all those years go, but it has been _his _leg**,** and like a petulant child, he had refused to give up that which was his, even if it had meant saving his life.

It was just a breast. Oh, he knew Wilson would never have said _that_ to her. _He_ might have, though. It sounded like something he would have said. It was her breast – a very comely one, too. Naturally, she would be just as possessive of it as he had been of his leg. It was _hers_, after all. Yet she had willingly, thankfully sacrificed that which was the very symbol of her femininity.

In fear, he had chosen a death that had not come.

Unafraid, she had chosen a life that might not last.

Suddenly, and very self-consciously, House was humbled by her strength.

Padilla was prepping the IV line when Wilson stopped him.

What are you doing, Jimmy? House stepped closer to the glass and pressed his hand to the cool surface, blue eyes scanning the room below for the problem.

Wilson leaned in closely to Cameron again and pointed in House's direction. Cameron raised her eyes and searched out his across the distance. Under her gaze, House dropped his hand from the glass and shifted his weight on his cane awkwardly. He felt as though he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Thanks so much, Jimmy, he thought. In spite of his discomfort, House warmed at the slight smile that came to her lips. The tension in her frame eased, and the fear left her eyes.

She said something to Wilson who then turned to the anesthesiologist. Within moments, Cameron was asleep. House watched silently as the surgical team began their assigned tasks.

Cameron was intubated. The blood pressure cuff and pulse monitors were reattached; her eyes were covered with surgical tape, and her hospital gown was stripped from her torso. The nurses swabbed her chest and underarm with Betadine; the thick, dark antiseptic solution stained her smooth skin, making it appear almost necrotic.

House clenched his jaw at the sight.

He had always had a healthy appreciation of the female form, and he had never shied away from volunteering his expert option on the matter whenever he was presented with the opportunity. Though his sexual encounters had been severely limited since his infarction – he let Wilson think there were far more hookers than there had been; he had a reputation to protect, after all – he still _loved_ to look. While Cuddy and her form-fitting outfits were frequently the subject of his commentaries, she was by no means his only subject of study. Cameron was a beautiful and alluring woman. She was, quite simply, hot. Yet, as he viewed her partially naked body, not a single licentious comment popped into his head. Instead House felt unclean, voyeuristic.

House lowered his eyes from the scene below for a moment and forced himself to regain his clinical perspective.

Her preparation complete, Wilson took the scalpel handed to him by the nurse and settled himself to cut. Pressing the razor-sharp tool to the markings on her flesh, he made the initial incision. House watched Cameron's blood well from the wound. It was quickly wiped away.

House had planned to watch the surgery from beginning to end to make sure there weren't any fuck-ups; he had done this a thousand times. He was a doctor; she was a patient.

Wilson began to excise the first pieces of breast tissue.

She wasn't just _any_ patient.

With a final glance at Cameron's lovely face, House turned and left the observation suite. He couldn't do this.

* * *


	7. Chapter 6: Rings, Hose, and IV Tubing

Sorry for the delay on this one. Work is getting busy, and unfortunately, I frequently have to bring it home with me. Anyhoo … thanks for all the wonderful reviews. Please keep them coming. It's amazing how a few detailed reviews will help feed the creative process. Thanks!

This was a difficult transition chapter for me to write, so hopefully it doesn't destroy the flow too much.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Of Engagement Rings, Compression Hose, and Intravenous Tubing**

* * *

"I never imagined that I would find you _here_," Wilson remarked. He stood next to House at the Nurse's Station in the center of the busy hospital clinic as the older doctor scribbled notes into a patient file that sat on the counter in front of him.

"I'm here in the afternoons … sometimes," House commented nonchalantly. He continued to write in the file.

"Never willingly. You have a habit of – "

Flipping the folder shut, House rolled his eyes at Wilson's comment. "Hiding in plain sight, thank you very much! Just like you, it's the last place Cuddy will think to look."

In truth he had been here most of the day. Ever since his Fellows kicked him out of his own office shortly after he left the O.R. Well, 'kicked' was a bit misleading; he had annoyed, and harped on, and harassed them so much that they fled the suite, allegedly to check on their patient and the various test results they were still awaiting. House, unwilling to spend another moment alone in his own company, had wandered around the hospital in search of something, anything to hold his attention and keep him from thinking of Cameron, sedated, a respirator filling her lungs with air as her life changed forever under the expert hand of James Wilson.

The clinic, and its endless parade of maladies and morons, had filled that bill admirably. Not that he would _ever_ admit that to anyone.

"Cuddy's not looking for you," Wilson said. He leaned against the counter and assessed House with a critical gaze. "She volunteered to help supervise Allison while she's in recovery. She's doing well, by the way."

"Cuddy's doing well! Saints be praised! She finally find a man to help her take care of that little parasite that masquerades as a daughter?" House asked. Though the question was asked with his trademark sarcasm it sounded off to Wilson's well-trained ears. House wasn't half trying.

"I'm not talking about Cuddy. Stop being deliberately obtuse for once. Allison should be moved back to her room sometime in the next hour or two."

"How nice," House tried to sound indifferent but was failing miserably.

"The surgery went as well as could be expected. What lymph nodes I couldn't visually identify as having tumors were sent off to the lab for biopsy. Should have the results back in a few days. That will help determine if Allison needs radiation in addition to the chemotherapy."

"Why are you telling me this? I'm sure the Wombat is waiting on pins and needles for a report so that he can rush off to play doctor with his cancer-stricken ex-girlfriend."

House grabbed another file from the never-ending heap of medical histories of the walking-wounded he seemed to be dealing with today. If he had to remove another in-grown toenail, he'd amputate the whole damn toe and save everyone considerable trouble. Scanning the file, and trying to ignore Wilson as he followed behind, House limped toward Exam Room Four where his next patient – oh, goodie, the kid swallowed mommy's engagement ring – awaited him.

"Well, first, because I thought you'd _like_ to know," Wilson answered, "but also because since you are her medical proxy, I am required to update you on her progress for the purpose of informed consent … should that become necessary." Never mind that she wants _you_, not Chase, he thought.

"Informed conse – what in the hell are you talking about, Jimmy?" So stunned was House by what Wilson had said that he stopped too quickly, and his bad leg almost gave out underneath him.

Wilson grabbed him before he fell to the floor, but House shrugged him off, regaining his balance on his own. His blue eyes, staring into his friend's brown ones, demanded an answer. "Cameron signed her living will before surgery this morning. She directed that _you_ be her medical proxy in case she was ever unable to make decisions –"

"I know what a fucking medical proxy is!" House's shout echoed through the waiting room, and all activity in the clinic came to a halt. Nurses, technicians, and patients alike stared openly at the pair of doctors, ever-curious as to the reason for such passion. Nosy Bastards! House grabbed Wilson by the arm and pulled him into a nearby corner. "What I want to know is why she chose _me_ as that proxy," House insisted.

"She said one reason was that if anyone would be able to make an un-emotional, un-biased decision about her medical care, it would be you."

Un-emotional? Un-biased? Euphemisms for impartial, unfeeling, callous. Normally he would bask in the accuracy of those terms, but knowing that they came from her … he was taken aback that Cameron thought she didn't matter to him. She did.

Oh, God. She _did_.

House gripped his cane tightly. He was unable to speak. Unable to think. It had always been there, he supposed, but he had never allowed the emotion to evolve into conscious thought. The realization almost made him dizzy. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to his friend.

"What's the second reason?" Wilson frowned at him, puzzled. "You said that 'un-biased' was one reason. That implies that there is a _second_. What is it?" House demanded, refusing to allow his thoughts continue their journey down the path they had been on. He couldn't deny what he felt, but he wasn't ready to consider what it _meant_.

"You'd have to ask her that," Wilson replied. "She didn't share it with me."

Wilson watched his friend wrestle with his emotions and felt compassion for him. House had long ago wrapped his heart in a protective bandage designed to ward off even the barest hint of emotional involvement where women were concerned. Given his unenviable romantic history, Wilson couldn't blame him, but had always hoped that someone might come along to gently unravel the sheath from the healing flesh. Whether House accepted it or not, Allison Cameron had started that process by gently tugging at the end of the bandage, unwrapping it millimeter by millimeter as the years passed and their tacit understanding of one another grew. With her illness, however, House had been forced to come to terms with his feelings for her far more quickly that the diagnostician would have liked. Based on the look on his friend's face, Cameron's gentle tug had been replaced with a violent rip, exposing House's still-tender heart to the cold reality of her cancer.

"Later," House said. "I have patients." House limped toward the exam room where the jewelry-eating seven year old awaited him.

"Don't rely on too many 'laters', House," Wilson advised, speaking from personal experience. "Sometimes later never comes."

"I know." House's voice was quiet and introspective as he opened the door and disappeared inside.

**

All in all, Cameron spent a relatively comfortable first afternoon recovering from her surgery. Of course, that all depended on one's definition of "comfortable".

When she wasn't being poked and prodded by the nurses, Wilson, or the phlebotomist, she spent most of her time sleeping. It was just as well. Awake she spent too much time trying to forget the fact that she wasn't the whole person she had been just a few hours ago. Though she couldn't yet actually _see_ that her breast was gone, she knew. She felt if every time she shifted in the bed; every time she lifted her arm; every time the nurses took her blood pressure. It was the first thing she remembered each time she woke up and the last thing she tried to forget whenever the pain medication lulled her back into a dreamless sleep.

Logically, she knew that she was on the verge of slipping into a depression – it was certainly common enough among mastectomy patients. Emotionally, however, she just couldn't summon up enough energy to care.

Her second day, however, just plain sucked.

On Wilson's orders, the nurses were getting Cameron up and out of bed for her first long walk since the surgery. Earlier, they had helped her move to the high-backed chair in front of the window where she had eaten her breakfast – the ever-popular liquid diet. That had been followed by a short, unplanned, trip to the bathroom. It turned out that morphine combined with any sort of oral liquid made her _extremely_ nauseous. She had been switched to Dilaudid for the pain, but Wilson decided to keep her on IV fluids until the nurses were confident she was getting enough liquids into her system on her own.

She had been sitting upright in bed with her legs dangling over the side for the last five minutes. A nurse held her arm firmly as Cameron slid her feet to the floor and carefully stood up. She knew how important it was for her to get moving to reduce the risk of deep vein thrombosis in her legs, but this sucked. She pulled in a quick breath at the sharp pain that flooded through her chest as gravity settled in and immediately regretted her action.

Quick inhalations after a mastectomy? Bad idea, Allison!

She clutched at the nurse's arm with her right hand. Unfortunately, the sudden movement of the abused flesh on her right side sent another wave of pain shooting through her. Could this get any worse? She was momentarily dizzy from the throbbing, and the nurse suggested that she sit down again.

Cameron refused.

"You got me up, so I'm staying up." She closed her eyes and took a series of cautious breaths until the wooziness passed. Once it did, she looked into the concerned face of the R.N. at her side. "So what's the first stop on the tour?"

The nurse chuckled in response. "Think you're up for a quick trip to atrium and back?"

"If not, we'll soon find out."

Cameron's journey was made in a series of small, halting steps. It amazed her that only four hours under general anesthesia had robbed not only of her strength but of her motor coordination as well, but then, she had never had surgery before. All patients reacted differently to the medications used during general anesthesia, but this was ridiculous. She clung to the IV pole which rolled along next to her as she walked. On it hung a large bag of D5W solution, and a smaller one containing antibiotics.

Finally she reached her destination. Gripping the back of one of the chairs at the edge of the room for support, Cameron turned around and gauged the length of the distance she had come.

It was all of 50 feet.

You have got to be kidding me! She felt as though she had walked at least three times that distance.

"Can I wait here for a few minutes before we go back?" Cameron asked. Now that she was up, she felt a little better. The throbbing in her chest had subsided a bit, and her mind felt clearer than it had since waking up in the recovery room. Besides the fading sunlight filtering into the atrium's windows was the prettiest thing she had seen all day.

"Sure we can," the nurse said. Even as she said it, a voice from farther down the hall shouted, "Call the code! Room 319!" The nurse looked down the corridor in the direction of the shout, and then again at Cameron. Allison could tell from the look on the other woman's face that it was one of her patients who was crashing.

"Go." Cameron insisted with her 'doctor's' voice. "I'll be fine here by myself for awhile."

She watched the nurse disappear around the corner before she turned back to the cheery room. She had passed this spot hundreds of times on her journeys from one part of the hospital to another, but she had never before appreciated the comfort of this alcove. Intravenous pole in hand, Cameron shuffled to a sofa in the center of the atrium. Sitting down wasn't nearly as difficult as getting up, she decided. The sharp pain returned when she tried to lean against the back of the couch, so Cameron sat straight and turned her face to the light that filtered through the windows.

That is how House found her when he limped silently into the atrium.

Cameron's blue robe was hooked around one of the arms of the sofa, and the compression hose on her right leg had started to slip. She looked pale and haggard, and the bulk of her surgical dressing made her look as though she had a Quasimodo-like hump growing out of her chest where her breast used to be. Her blonde hair was tangled from sleep and hung lifelessly down her back.

But as the rays of the setting sun washed their rosy tints over her face, House decided that she had never looked lovelier.

He held onto that moment. Leaning against his cane, he studied her features, her form. He examined every detail from the graceful curve of her eyebrows, to the sensuous pout of her lips to the arch of her dainty feet, clothed as they were in a pair of hot pink, no-slip hospital socks.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, teasing him. Then she sighed, one that was at once both cautious and sad. Odd considering the smile. House wondered at its meaning.

Slowly, languidly, she opened her eyes and saw him standing before her. Her smile didn't fade, exactly, but became questioning and uncertain.

"Hello," she said after a moment.

"Hello," he echoed. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears as though it had gone unused for days instead of only the few minutes since he had arrived.

She considered her next words carefully. There were so many things she wanted to say, had intended to say to him before the surgery, but they were all too complicated for this moment.

"Thank you for being there today." It was the most undemanding thing she could think of to say to him.

What did one say to such a straightforward expression of appreciation, House wondered? Several options popped into his head.

No problem. I had nothing better going on than to watch you get your fun bag sliced off?

No.

_General Hospital_ was pre-empted, so I thought I'd pop by rather than watch _As the World Turns_?

No, not that either.

I killed my PSP and was bored?

Probably not.

If something went wrong during the surgery, I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again?

_Definitely_ not.

"You're welcome," House said with a shrug. He hobbled into the atrium and took a seat in the chair opposite her.

They sat in silence and stared at each other for several long moments. They had done the same the other day in his office when she told him and the others that she was sick. Time stretched between them. So much to say, and no words to say it with.

House dropped his eyes and began to tap his cane on the floor. He didn't know what to say or do. For the first time in a long time, he felt uncertain, exposed ... vulnerable. It was unfamiliar territory to him, and he did _not_ like it.

Unfortunately, Cameron was getting tired and the pain in her chest was returning. It was probably past time for her next painkiller. She just didn't feel like playing 'Guess What House is Up To'.

"Why are you here, House?" she demanded wearily and immediately regretted the words. Clearly there had been too much bite, too much censure in her tone for House looked up at her sharply, cane halted mid-tap.

"Well, it sure as hell isn't for the titillating view or the stimulating conversation!" he barked, choosing the harsh tone to hide his awkwardness and embarrassment. Hefting himself to his feet, House headed for the door.

Idiot! Cameron chided herself. She was sad, and weary, and she hurt, but the fact that he had even bothered to show up at all was important.

Post-surgical mood swings. Wilson had warned her about them. Lovely.

"House, wait! I didn't mean to –" she stood up and reached out her right hand toward him, but her words were cut off abruptly by a yelp of pain. She had been so caught up in the look of embarrassed anger on his face that she had stood up far too quickly.

Pain exploded in her chest. As Cameron struggled to overcome the agonizing sensation, an intense wave of dizziness smothered her mind. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she felt herself falling toward the cold, hard tile of the atrium floor.

House turned at the sound of her cry. His cane fell forgotten to the floor, and in four awkward, painful strides he was at her side, catching her in his arms as she fell, but he was unprepared to bear the full burden of her weight; his leg buckled beneath him, and the pair crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms, legs, and intravenous tubing.

He struggled not to cry out in pain. His leg was twisted awkwardly beneath him, but as he assessed the situation, it seemed that he had managed to keep her from hitting the floor. She lay in his arm, her head and torso nestled against his chest. The peripheral line had been torn out of her arm, and blood oozed from the wound, so he pressed his thumb hard against it to staunch the flow.

"Need some help in here!" he called to anyone who would hear. Cameron moaned slightly in his arms; her eyes were shut tight, but he could see the tears that slipped from between the lids. Her entire body was tense, and her mouth was pressed into a taut line as she battled the pain.

It was when he was turning her slightly to ease the pressure on his own leg that he saw the blood. It was seeping quickly through the surgical bandage, soaking both it and the front of his jacket. There was too much. She had clearly ripped some of her sutures in the fall. The incisions were barely a day old, not even close to being healed. If she had pulled too many of them –

"I NEED HELP IN HERE, NOW!" House roared, not willing to consider the half-dozen scenarios running through his head – all of which ended with her bleeding to death in his arms.

"I'll be okay," Cameron mumbled against his chest. "Stupid of me to …" He felt her body go limp in his arms. She had lost consciousness; be it from the pain or the blood loss, he did not know.

House heard the sound of running feet in the hallway, heading in their direction.

"Hang in there," he whispered against her hair as he pulled her closer to his chest.

Then the one word that Cameron was sure House didn't really know how to use fell from his lips.

"Please … "

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**Review! Review! Review! You know you are dying to do it! Please and thank you!**


	8. Chapter 7:Unintended Effect of Narcotics

I am glad that so many of you enjoyed the last chapter. It was definitely a fun one to write, though I didn't initially plan for it to be a cliffhanger. It's always fun to see just where the muse Calliope takes me. While this piece of writing isn't epic _poetry_ by any means, anything involving House getting in touch with his feelings is certainly epic in scope.

Thanks again for all of the feedback. It's also exciting to see how many of you are adding this as a favorite story or me as a favorite author. I am humbled.

Please let me know what you think of this latest chapter. I hope that I do not disappoint.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Seven: You Can't Be Held Responsible for What You Say Under the Effects of Narcotics. Or Can You?**

* * *

Night had long since fallen by the time Cameron opened her eyes again. The muted glow of the fluorescent reading light behind her bed softened the odd shadows that lurked in the corners of her room. She could hear the subdued bustle of the nursing team in the hallway outside, so unlike the controlled chaos that reigned during the day.

Carefully, she turned her head one way then the next, trying to work out the kinks that had formed as she slept. She groaned in discomfort and tried to shift her body to relieve the tightness. She was unsuccessful.

"Keep that up and you'll rip your stitches again."

Cameron jumped at the sound of House's voice. She hadn't seen him leaning against the wall by the windows in the far corner of her room. "Use the trapeze bar like a good invalid," he instructed.

He stepped out of the shadows. His blue button-down shirt was loose, rumpled, and spotted here and there with blood – her blood – as was the t-shirt beneath it. While he made his way to her side, she noticed that his limp was more pronounced than usual. House unhooked the metal triangle from the bar above her bed around which it was looped. It dangled crazily on its chain in front of her.

She reached out her left hand to steady it and curled her fingers around the rubber grip, but she was listless from the medication as well as right-handed. She tried, but lacked the strength and coordination to pull herself upright.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," grumbled House as her grip faltered. He tossed his cane on the foot of the bed and pressed the button to lower the bed rail. Wrapping her hand around the bar again, he moved slightly behind her and slipped his hands around either side of her back. Cameron lifted herself as far off the mattress as she could, and as she did so, House firmly yet gently pulled her farther up the bed, elbowing her pillow into place.

"I've seen newborn gazelles with more grace and coordination," he added, tugging her rumpled blankets into order.

"Thank you," she said when he had finished. She was stunned by his deed. She couldn't remember a time when he had shown her, or anyone for that matter, such a courtesy. Even the corsage he had given her on their date had seemed forced – a harbinger of the disaster to come – but there was nothing forced in this.

"Yeah, well, I'm not your nurse, so don't expect a repeat performance."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied with a slight smile. There had been something uncomfortably awkward about him when he had come to the atrium, and it had puzzled her. She couldn't put her finger on what had been different about him, but _this_ was the House she knew. Cameron nestled into the pillows behind her. A sharp tug under her right arm reminded her again of her earlier fall from grace.

"So what's the damage," she asked, indicating her chest.

"You managed to rip out all but four of the epidermal sutures, but most of the subcutaneous ones held. Wilson was on the floor doing rounds when you fell; he stitched you up again once they got you back here. Just as well you were unconscious for the fun. Blood loss looked worse than it was. You didn't need a transfusion."

The events of that afternoon were hazy at best, but she remembered that there was only one reason she wasn't worse off than she was.

"Your leg?"

"Strained a few ligaments in my knee. Wanna massage it for me? Some oil, a few candles, warm hands, you in a black teddy … or out of a black teddy. I'm not particular."

She chuckled.

"No? Well at least no one will notice the limp." He grabbed his cane and leaned heavily against it. Reaching into the pocket of his blood-stained jacket that was draped on the corner of the bed, House popped the cap off his Vicodin bottle and downed two of the pills. "You need more meds?" he asked, shaking the bottle.

Cameron nodded. The discomfort that had pulled her from sleep was becoming more acute.

House limped over to the door and shouted, none-too-quietly, his demands to the nursing staff.

"I think you just woke up Coma-guy."

"Serves him right. It's time he started earning his keep. I caught him stealing one of my potato chips yesterday. The whole coma thing's nothing but a ploy for my attention anyway."

"Of course it is." Cameron straightened up slightly as the nurse came down the hallway, but House shoved his cane against the door jam, blocking her entrance. He grabbed the syringes out of her hand.

"You can go now," he told the nurse pointedly.

"Dr. House, you are _not_ going to administer the medication to Dr. Cameron," she insisted, reaching for the syringes that he held above his head, far out of the petite woman's reach.

"House," Cameron sighed, "let Carolyn do her job."

"_I _am a doctor. _You_ are a nurse. Nurses are supposed to do what doctors _tell_ them to do," he explained to Carolyn in a voice one would use with a five year old. "So until your little name badge there has an MD on it, you – can – go – now!"

Carolyn recognized the futility of arguing with House. In fact, she really couldn't figure out why she had tried in the first place. "I _will_ discuss this with Dr. Wilson," she informed him coolly.

"Oooooh. So Scared!"

Carolyn poked her head around his body to address her patient. "I'll be by in about an hour to check your vitals. Let me know if you need anything." Cameron nodded her thanks. Carolyn glared once more at House and left the room, pulling the door partially closed behind her. House's voice echoed like distant cannon-fire and there was no need to further disturb the other patients.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves – somewhat redundant since he had been covered in her blood earlier – and wiping the IV's injection port with a sterile swab he had grabbed from the supply cart, House slid the needle of the first syringe, one containing saline solution, into the injection port and slowly flushed the line that had been inserted, this time, into the top of Cameron's left hand. Capping the syringe, he dropped it in the safety container attached to the wall behind the bed.

"I don't have my watch, so you'll have pace me," he told Cameron. He held up the second syringe.

"And where do you think I am hiding mine?" she asked, snippily.

This was more than just the pain talking, House understood. While Cameron slept after her nose dive, he spent most of the evening sitting in the chair at her bedside thinking about her reactions in the atrium. Analysis was what he did best, so he had constructed a differential diagnosis – sans white board; yes, he _could_ do that – on Allison Cameron's mental state.

Fact: She was closed off.

According to Wilson, Cameron had spoken to virtually no one about her condition. Oh, certainly she _told_ people about it – well, not her parents – but she hadn't sought out any sort of emotional support or counseling upon her diagnosis. Granted, she had never been one to run off at the mouth about her personal problems, but she shared … sometimes. This time, however, she was keeping her own counsel, bottling it all up. That was something he would do, and frequently did, as a matter of course, but for a person who traditionally wore her heart on her sleeve, the fact that she would so deliberately refuse to open up about her feelings on a life-threatening disease was more than a bit concerning.

Fact: She was indifferent.

The nurses indicated that she seemed completely unresponsive to the condition of her mastectomy wound, or how the healing was progressing. She asked no questions or clarifications. They said – okay, he hadn't spent _every_ moment in the chair at her bedside, so he did a little eavesdropping at the Nurse's Station – that except for when they emptied the surgical drains, she barely acknowledged that the bandage even existed.

Fact: She was quick to anger.

_So_ not typically Cameron. She was one of those "slow burn" kinda people. The ones whose fuses were ten miles long, but when the flame finally reached the powder keg, the explosion burned hot and fast, then was over. He had deliberately lit that fuse many times, but he could count only a handful of times – usually after a protracted campaign on his part – when she had actually blown up at him.

Fact: Her eyes were sad.

House had no outside evidence, no narrative, no statistics, no test results to help support his findings except for the fact that every time he looked into her green eyes, he was struck by the deep, abiding sadness that had filled them in just a few short days. She smiled, and she laughed, but in the time since she announced her condition not once had he seen one of those smiles reach her eyes.

The diagnosis was clear: depression, denial, avoidance, but the treatment for it was less apparent.

House knew one thing for certain … well, two things, actually.

The first was that though he didn't have a clue how he was going to do it, he wanted to take the sadness from Cameron's eyes.

The second thing he knew was that the first thing scared the hell out of him.

However, until he could determine best possible treatment for her depression, he might as well try distraction. He was good at distraction. "I can think of any number of places where you might be hiding your watch," he told her, getting back to the task at hand. "Would you like me to search?"

She glared in response.

"Fine, just count to 30. I assume you can still do that?"

Another glare, but she gave him a "go" and verbally counted out the time while House methodically injected the medication into the port. Cameron felt the medication flood her system with blissful pain relief. She leaned back against the pillows, her hand falling from the bed rail to the mattress at her side.

"Oh, God. _Thank_ you."

"Spoken like a true addict." House disposed of the final syringe and the gloves. He inspected the half-empty IV bag that hung on the pole attached to the bed. He tapped it with his finger. "You hungry?" he asked.

"Not particularly."

"Sleepy?"

"Getting there." Her voice was lazy.

He looked at her face. While she seemed altogether too relaxed, he could still detect a certain degree of tension about her eyes and mouth.

"Yeah, well you're a lightweight," he said. "No great shocker that you can't hold your pain meds. Should've heard the things you were babbling about earlier. Makes a man wonder what else that luscious mouth is capable of."

"I didn't!"

"You _did_!" House insisted.

She felt her face flush at the possibility. She had seen, and heard, more than one patient confess taboo behavior while under the effects of narcotics. She could only imagine …

He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. "If I'd have known that was the way to unleash all the deep, dark, _naughty_ secrets you've been hiding, I'd have shot you full of Dilaudid years ago."

The scruff of his beard rubbed against her cheek. She shivered but did not pull away. Partly because the pain medication had left her body leaden, but also because this was the closest she had been to him in years. She had missed it. Missed him.

"But, seeing as how you're sick, I'm willing to play the stand-up guy and keep all the juicy details to myself."

"Since when have you ever let someone's health keep you from playing the bastard?" She was instantly suspicious. She knew it couldn't be that easy. "What do you want, House?"

The mischievous look on his face confirmed her suspicion.

Blackmail.

He popped up straight and began to sway back and forth with his cane as the pivot point. "I haven't decided yet." He grinned like a ten year old boy contemplating possible Christmas gifts. "But I promise it'll be good."

"Good for who?"

"For whom. _Whom_, objective case, Cancer-girl. Pardon me, Cancer-_woman_, but as to your question, that too has yet to be decided; at bare minimum, it will be very good for –"

"You."

"Still a sharp one! Nice to see all that uncontrolled cellular growth hasn't dulled the senses."

"_Yet_," Cameron emphasized. Sighing, she rolled her head away and stared out the windows.

Fuck. So much for distracting her with witty repartee.

"House …" she said in a tired voice, turning back to him.

His look was questioning.

"Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Really?"

He dropped his eyes from hers and studied the handle of his cane. This thumb worried the smooth surface of the wood. "I don't have a complete answer to that question."

"What answer _do_ you have?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't ready to share the complete truth with himself yet, let alone her, but she deserved something.

"House?"

He blinked hard before returning her gaze. "You shouldn't go through this alone."

She opened her mouth to protest.

"Do you want to hear the answer to your question, or not?" He drew a calming breath and began again. "Look, everyone knows that I was a bastard before the infarction destroyed my leg. I didn't exactly change into a ray of sunshine after it, either. I pushed her away. Made it impossible for her to stay –"

"But she betrayed you." Neither of them cared to say Stacy's name.

He raised his hand. "Shut up for _once_, would you? This is difficult enough without you interrupting all the damn time."

Cameron snapped her mouth shut.

"Whatever the reasons for it, I was alone, and I think we all know how well that turned out for me. I can't stand the thought of that happening," his voice was gruff as he forced his next words from this throat, "… to you."

House turned away, clearly embarrassed by his own honesty.

Never before had he spoken to her with such sincerity and openness. She was astonished. If that was the incomplete answer to her question, Cameron couldn't imagine what the rest would contain. She had learned more about House in the last two minutes than she had in the previous five years, and she appreciated that such an admission was … well difficult didn't begin to explain what it must have cost him. But why?

"House –"

"If you hadn't decided rip yourself open in sacrifice to the heathen gods, you'd have probably gone home tomorrow," he interrupted.

Cameron watched his face in the reflection of her hospital window as he stared out into the night at the Princeton skyline. His face, so open and vulnerable just a few moments ago, had changed back to his normal, sarcastic guise.

"As it stands, Wilson wants you in until at least the day after. If you're a good girl, that is." Turning abruptly, House limped across the room. He paused after opening the partially closed door, but did not turn to face her. "For the record, blackmail is such an _ugly_ word, but you'll know the demands for my silence once you're home. Get some sleep."

Cameron watched his rapid departure with a sense of dread and curiosity. What else could he possibly have up his sleeve? With House, she knew anything was possible.

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**So? Worth a few reviews? Huh? Huh? **


	9. Chapter 8: Making the House Payment

There's nothing like a major spring snowstorm to keep a writer chained to her computer to knock out the next chapter, is there? Snow has turned to rain here in Denver, but I hear tell that tree branches are breaking and roofs are collapsing all over town under the weight of this snow. We need the moisture, but really!

Thanks for all the reviews and feedback of the last chapter. It's always so exciting to read them. Please, please, please keep them coming. In large part, they are what feed my desire to keep writing this tale.

I hope that you all enjoy this installment.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Making the House Payment**

* * *

"You're sure you're going to be all right here alone?" Foreman asked. He took another glance around Cameron's airy apartment, looking for some excuse he might use to convince her to let him stay for awhile. A scheduling screw up with her home health care provider meant that she would be alone until late tomorrow morning, and while Eric didn't relish the thought of cancelling the romantic evening he had planned with Remy to spend a night in Cameron's guest room, he disliked the idea of leaving her by herself even more.

"I'll be fine," Cameron said firmly. She sat in her favorite chair with her feet propped up on an ottoman. Smoothing an errant wrinkle from the ruby chenille throw Foreman had draped over her legs, she pointed to the array of books, remote controls, and pain medications on the table at her side. "I have everything I need. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself until the nurse arrives tomorrow. Thank you for bringing me home, but you need to leave if you are going to make your dinner reservation."

Foreman glanced at his watch. She was right, but he was still torn.

"Look. If anything goes wrong, I promise to call you or Wilson."

This he could accept. It wasn't perfect, but it would suffice. "If you get so much as a blister on your thumb from channel surfing, you use that phone." His voice and expression were emphatic.

"I promise."

"Okay. I'll talk with you later. I'll lock up behind me so you don't have to get up," Foreman said, indicating the key on the fob she had given him a year ago when she and Chase had gone on vacation, and Eric had offered to keep an eye on the place.

"You two have fun," she called after him as he shut the door. She heard the lock twist home, and with a sigh she closed her eyes and settled back into the chair.

It had been a long day. Wilson, on rounds, woke her up early. Though she had kept her attention on the TV's morning news program while he inspected her incisions and surgical drains, he had been pleased enough with her progress to approve her discharge. "Just don't go throwing yourself on the floor again, please," he had said, only half-joking about her accident in the atrium two days earlier.

The nurse then helped her wash up before changing her dressings. "I'll take care of it at home," had been Cameron's response to the nurse's query about whether she wanted to look at the incision herself.

A visit from the physical therapist who guided Cameron through her arm stretches was then followed by one from the occupational therapist who instructed her on the use of the various tools she had been provided to help make her recuperation at home go smoothly. "Don't forget to use the reaching tool to grab the things you can't get to easily. Don't risk straining yourself," she was cautioned. Those appointments were followed by more forms to sign – which proved to be difficult considering she still couldn't effectively raise her right arm high enough to write on anything solid – and visits from Cuddy, Thirteen, and Chase. It was late afternoon before Foreman arrived, wheelchair in hand, to escort her to his car and drive her home.

She hadn't seen House since he had left her room two nights ago with little more than a nod and a portentous promise.

A warm breeze fluttered the curtains of the open window beside her, carrying with it the fresh scent of lilac from the bushes outside. Lilacs were her favorite scent of spring – fresh, clean, and full of promise. Breathing deeply, letting their perfume suffuse her senses, Cameron opened her eyes and looked out the window at the community garden below.

Would there be lilacs for her next spring?

The sun had started to set, and the diffused glow of twilight filled the apartment. She was glad to be home; she liked being back among her things, her memories. Four days in the hospital had been enough for her to appreciate the comforts of home, but something about it made her strangely ill at ease. Looking around the room, Cameron noticed that the bookcase needed to be organized, and that the area rug beneath the sofa was in need of a serious beating. She could only imagine the size of the dust bunny warren underneath her bed. It wasn't the physical condition of the apartment that had set her on edge, however. It was the emotional one.

She was alone.

Granted, the time that Chase had been in her home hadn't been extensive – when they spent time together, they had usually stayed at his place – but he had been there often enough that he left behind an echo of his presence even when he wasn't physically there. They had broken up almost five weeks ago, but those five weeks had been so hectic for her that Cameron had not had time to reflect on the silence of the emptiness.

The echo of companionship had faded and then died away completely without her even noticing it – until now.

Cameron sighed and swung her legs off of the ottoman, ignoring the throw as it fell to the wooden floor at her feet. Scooting to the edge of the chair as she had been taught, she pushed herself out of the seat with her left hand. She should have used her right one, too, but she just didn't feel like dealing with the discomfort right now. She walked to the kitchen, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to avoid tripping on the edge of the area rug or on the transition line from wood to ceramic tile.

She opened the refrigerator and poked around for something to eat. She wasn't overly hungry but knew she should have something. The eggs, mixed fruit, and bagel she had eaten for breakfast hadn't set well in her stomach, so she had only picked at her lunch – just enough to keep the nurses from contacting Wilson. She hadn't wanted anything to postpone her discharge.

Finding nothing but a jar of olives, a half-empty bottle of chardonnay, an old wedge of brie cheese, and a carton of eggs in the fridge – when was the last time I shopped, anyway? – Cameron moved next to the pantry and searched its shelves. Unfortunately, it didn't seem that she had anything remotely appetizing in the house. She wanted soup. Something brothy sounded heavenly, but there wasn't so much as a bouillon cube to be found.

Cameron was considering whether or not she could risk a jaunt down the stairs to her neighbor's apartment – Mrs. Moody probably had a can of chicken noodle lying about – when there was a knock at the door.

Foreman. She rolled her eyes. Why wouldn't the man realize that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself? "Go home, Eric. I promise I will call if I need anything. Go – go be with Remy!" she shouted through the apartment, hoping he would hear her through the heavy wooden door.

Another knock sounded, followed quickly by another and another until it had turned into a rapid tapping that sounded oddly hollow. Abruptly, she recognized the sound. It was the thump of wood knocking against wood.

House.

The time for her reckoning had come.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, Cameron walked gingerly across the living room, turned the lock, and opened the door.

"Took you long enough," House grumbled, limping past her and through the living room into the kitchen. "I was wondering if I needed to call in the cadaver dogs, but it would've been too soon. The smell wouldn't have made it to the doorway for a couple of weeks yet."

"Please come in, House," she muttered with a superfluous welcoming gesture. She heard the sound of drawers opening and shutting. What was he doing in her kitchen?

"Where in the hell are your bowls?" he demanded, poking his head out of the kitchen amidst the sound of rustling bags. "I'm starving!" It was then that she realized he had brought dinner. She followed the smell of Chinese food that filled the apartment; oddly enough, it didn't make her nauseous.

"What do you need a bowl for? It's Chinese. You eat it out of the carton." She opened a cabinet and lifted her arm to pull out a white ceramic cereal bowl. House stopped her hand with his and reached over her head to grab it himself.

"I don't. _You_ do." Turning back to the counter, House pulled a large Styrofoam container out of the bag. He opened the lid and held it under her nose. "Hard to eat soup with chopsticks; bowl and spoon are kinda mandatory."

Wonton soup. He had brought her wonton soup.

Brothy. Hot. Heavenly.

How had he known?

"You didn't eat all of your breakfast and barely picked at your lunch," using the spoon that he had found while searching for the bowls, House scooped several of the dumplings into the bowl and poured the broth in after them, "which means that your stomach still hasn't rebounded enough from the surgery for you to completely tolerate solid foods."

"You're spying on me now?" Cameron demanded, taking the bowl he thrust into her hands. She carefully settled herself at the dining table. She was offended, but the soup smelled too good to pass up.

"Technically, others were doing the spying. I was evaluating the fruits of their labor," House corrected around a mouthful of Pork Lo Mein. "That's what doctors do – observe and evaluate."

"You're not my doctor."

"Have you always been this caught up with the minor details? Wait! Don't answer that. Of _course_ you have. You're _Cameron_," he said mock-disgust. "Anyway, until you're able to stomach more than liquids, it's soup for you, but if you're really good and eat all of your soup … I might let you eat my egg rolls."

Cameron nearly shot broth out of her nose at his double entendre. Coughing painfully, she struggled for breath. "You wish."

After that they ate in companionable silence. House joined her at the table and propped the foot of his bad leg against the foot rest of her chair. She finished her soup, right down to the last wonton. Thankfully, he hadn't given her much more than a cupful, but it was enough. She declined the egg roll he had speared with a chopstick for her, and laughed as he bit down on it enthusiastically. She made a flippant comment about the use of teeth on so tender a roll, and House groaned in mock pain.

Other than the monster truck rally, Cameron couldn't remember a time when she had been this at ease around the man. When she had worked for House, she had often struggled to control her own physical reaction whenever he came too close. When she had moved to the ER, she cloaked that desire in professional courtesy and in her "relationship" with Chase. She would have been lying to herself if she said that his nearness now didn't affect her, it did, but it was in the background. It didn't dominate her senses as it so often had in the past.

It was comfortable.

Washing down the egg roll's crunchy remains with a large sip of the cold beer he had brought along with the Chinese, House turned to Cameron. "Now. My demands."

So much for comfortable.

House stood up and began to pace the length of the living room and dining room, much as he did when conducting a differential diagnosis. "Let's review the facts, shall we? You," he pointed at Cameron who scowled at him, "have been a naughty girl. Now that in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing. We all have our little indiscretions, after all, but you have the added disadvantage of having a loose tongue."

"I was drugged! I can't be held responsible for what I said."

"If it had been Wilson, or even Foreman, who had enjoyed the recitation of your vivid descriptions, I would agree with you; _they_ would have taken your secrets with them to their graves, but we both know I'm _not_ Wilson or Foreman."

"No, you're a manipulative, blackmailing bastard."

He smiled broadly. "Yes, I am."

"How do I know that you even have anything? You could just be leading me on."

"You want proof?" He hesitated.

"You're damn right I do." If she could have folded her arms across her chest, she would have. She was starting to sense she had the upper hand. House was bluffing. He had nothing. "There's no second-hand collaboration. You were alone in the room, and I was unconscious. Without evidence, this is nothing more than some fantasy you cooked up for your own perverse reasons."

House hooked his cane over the back of the dining room chair and with a slow smile leaned down to her. "You're wrong. The perversions are all yours, and it isn't fantasy – it's reality." He invaded her personal space, and began to whisper his "proof" in her ear, his lips brushing its curve as he spoke. Her breath caught in her throat with the closeness and scent of him, but as he continued his recitation – complete with such vivid descriptions that her hazy memory suddenly sharpened with the clarity of that particular event – she grew breathless with mortification.

He had the proof.

"What do you want?" she conceded. She slumped back into her chair.

He stood up and assessed her for a few moments before he spoke. She was lovely. Her hair was caught up in a haphazard pony tail and her cheeks were still flushed with her embarrassment, but her sadness still hung about her like a dark shroud of despair dulling her normal brilliance. "In your own way, you're an even bigger pain in the ass than I am. You're stubborn, intractable. I turned you into a brilliant diagnostician in your own right, but you refuse to ever look at the big picture when your own life is concerned."

"Are you being deliberately insulting because you find it entertaining, or is there something _specific_ you wanted?" Cameron was rapidly losing her temper.

"You have _cancer_, not a head cold for crying out loud!" There, he had said it. He had given voice to the disease killing her. "A boring disease, but you're still fighting for your life. You have refused the help of everyone who cares about you. You think you can do it on your own. I'm here to tell you that you can't."

"I _can't_?" She rose from the chair, her fury palpable as she advanced on him. Her anger brought her a strength she hadn't had in days. "You bastard. You're not the one who's sick. I am. It's my choice how I choose to deal with it. Who in the hell do you think you are to tell me what I can or cannot do where my own life is concerned," she demanded, poking him hard in the chest several times to emphasis her words.

"I'm the one who's going to be taking care of you," he answered smugly, catching her hand in his before her fingers could poke him again.

"Excuse me?" Her anger deflated instantly in her confusion.

"That's my price."

"Taking care of me?" She was incredulous. The man was clearly insane. She had tried to deny it for five years. Geniuses were always a little on the unpredictable side she had explained to anyone who questioned House's mental stability, but clearly the man was just plain nuts. "_That's_ your brilliant idea? You've got me nailed to the wall. You hold in your hand the very thing you've been after for five years, and you're going to throw it away on just 'taking care of me' for a few days?"

"Not a few days -- the duration," he clarified. "Until you get a clean bill of health from Wilson that the cancer is in full remission, you are _my_ responsibility."

"B … but that will be months," she whispered more to herself than to him. Pulling her hand from his, she braced herself again the table. She couldn't believe what he was offering. It made no sense. He didn't even _like_ her, for Pete's sake.

"Twelve to eighteen minimum, I'd think," he said, doing the mental calculation.

She looked up at him in disbelief. Her mouth struggled to find words for the riot of confusing emotions flooding her mind and heart. She had none. "I … I don't have a choice, do I?" were the words she settled for.

"Not unless you want me to post my wealth of information on Facebook for all to see. You'd probably bear up under the weight well enough, even though you are sick, but I'm not quite sure that Chase has the backbone for it."

She didn't need to say it again, 'you bastard' was clear in her heated gaze.

"Fine. You win, House."

He clapped his hands together and rubbed them with glee. Picking up his cane he limped to the living room sofa, plopped down, and propped his legs on the coffee table. "Oh!" he said, snapping his fingers in realization. "There's only one more decision to make."

"What's that?" Her voice was tired, resigned, as she sat down next to him.

"Your place or mine?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm sure as hell not going to drive over here every single day, so are we going to live here or at my place?"

Cameron pressed the heels of both hands to her eyes and slumped against the back of the sofa. This was a nightmare.

* * *

**Worth a review, perchance? Please? Hehehe.**


	10. Chapter 9: Positives From Negatives

This chapter is a bit longer, but I have a busy week ahead of me, and I can't guarantee another update much before mid-week, if that.

Most of your comments and feedback for the last chapter were simply wonderful. Thank you so much! I am glad that you are enjoying this story.

I hope that you like this chapter as much as you did the last.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Nine: A Negative Times a Negative Equals a Positive**

* * *

It hadn't been much of a choice. After all, House didn't have a guest room, and he honestly couldn't see Cameron spending the next year on his sofa living out of cardboard boxes the way that Wilson had.

Proceeding on that theory, he had brought with him to her apartment several containers of his own belongings. Clothes, yes, but also the items vital to his sanity and well being – his Playstation, two of his favorite guitars, and his scotch. If House could have loaded his piano into his 'Vette, he would have, but it wasn't like he wasn't _ever_ planning to go home. He guessed that he would probably find the need to flee to his Bastion of Bachelorhood more than once in the coming weeks and months. He'd work out his frustrations on the piano then. He had long ago come to the decision that it was in the best interest of his mental health to limit his exposure to all things Cameron.

And yet here you are moving in with her.

I'm taking care of her. It's a temporary thing.

If you want to call it that, by all means do.

Shut up.

House shoved the box of books he had been unpacking into the back of the closet in the guest room. He'd worry about them later. He really hated his inner voice, especially since it had started to sound more and more like Wilson.

The weekend, their first days of co-habitating – he was _not_ living with her – went smoothly enough. Cameron spent most of her time sleeping. When she was awake, they watched TV together or he instructed her in the fundamentals of console gaming. House hadn't been surprised that she waved off _Kill Zone 2_ and _Resident Evil 5_, but was grateful she had chosen _Command and Conquer_ – at least she was still blowing stuff up – over _Zuma_. House still couldn't figure out why he had bought that pansy-ass bead game in the first place. She was a quick study, too, and before long had won her first campaign.

Cameron had called to cancel the home nurse who had been scheduled to come the morning after House commandeered her guest bedroom, and after another day subsiding on take-out food, he had reluctantly taken her grocery shopping Sunday morning.

"You won't make it past the produce aisle," he said, pointing out that she was barely a week past major surgery and that her biggest outing to date had been the 15 minute drive home in Foreman's pathetic Mini Cooper.

"You don't know what I eat, and I'd rather not recuperate on beer, Corn Nuts, and take-out," she insisted.

As he had predicted, Cameron tired quickly. So it was with a self-righteous smile that House guided both her and the cart through the aisles of the market, dropping the items she pointed out – as well as several of his own – into the buggy. After watching her stumble twice, however, House finally moved Cameron behind the cart, even going so far as to physically wrap her hands around the handle.

"You push. I'll steer. I doubt we'll escape the dairy section alive any other way." House pulled his cane from the top basket where he had stowed it, and limped along side the cart as she pushed, keeping his free hand next to hers on the bar to guide them.

"You're right, I shouldn't have come," she admitted. He could hear the frustration in her voice. He knew that she had never been seriously ill, and he'd probably win heavily if he bet on the fact that she had never had surgery before.

He took them down the junk food aisle. As he grabbed a bag of potato chips, House felt Cameron sway next to him. House released the handle and moved his arm around her back, securing her between the buggy and his body.

She wasn't dizzy, just exhausted. Leaning against him, Cameron rested her head against his shoulder momentarily, grateful for the support.

House was about to insist they head home when he felt the warmth of her breath whisper against the skin beneath his partially open collar. Swallowing nervously once, then twice, House impulsively pulled her closer to him. She felt so good in his arms, but when Cameron rested her hand against his chest, he stiffened.

You idiot! You're nothing more than a convenient place to lean while she tries not to fall on her face again.

"That's it; we're done here." His voice was tender yet gruff, but brooked no argument.

Thankfully, the checkout line was short, and in no time House paid for their purchases – a quick, pointed glare silenced the protest he could sense forming on Cameron's lips when he handed over his cash to the cashier – and ushered her out of the market.

Cameron dozed in the seat next to him as he drove her car back to the apartment. House was grateful that she did. He was still unsettled about his reaction to holding her in his arms, and he really didn't trust himself enough to even talk about the weather.

House woke her with a gentle nudge when they arrived, and thankfully, Cameron managed to make it up the stairs to her apartment on her own, carrying a few of the lighter bags as she went. He wouldn't have been able to get them all up by himself.

The cripple and the cancer patient, he thought as he hobbled up the stairs behind her. What a pathetic pair we make.

"I'll put the food away," he told her, unpacking the bags on the kitchen counter once they were inside. "If I screw up your kitchen, you can yell at me later. Oh, and take the damn Percocet, would you? I don't want to hear you scream and moan like you did last night because you let the pain get ahead of you. That's why they call it pain _management_."

"This coming from the expert."

"Nice. Sarcasm. And here I thought you had learned all that you could from me."

"I was clearly wrong, 'Daddy,'" she said in a tone that mocked his own habit of referring to himself as the 'daddy of the ducklings'.

"_Don't_." House's voice had turned cold and firm. Groceries lay forgotten on the counter as he turned toward her.

Cameron raised her eyebrows in surprise. What had she said? The look in his eyes was one she had never seen before. It wasn't anger, but she didn't know what it was.

"_Don't_ call me, that," he clarified, hobbling over to her where she leaned with her back against the door jamb of the kitchen. He towered over her petite frame. As had become his habit, House had left his cane hooked over the dining room chair when they entered, so he supported his weight by bracing himself with one hand against the door frame next to her head. He narrowed the distance between them until they were closer than they had been in the market.

He leaned toward her, his icy blue eyes never leaving her soft green ones. He was so close that she could taste him on the air they breathed in together – the oakiness of his beloved scotch, the tang of the morning coffee they had shared, the bitterness of his Vicodin. It was the flavor that was uniquely House. She had tasted of it only once in her life, but it had resonated so deeply in her soul that she had been haunted by the memory of that kiss for two long years.

"I may be old, but I am _not_ your father." His whisper was harsh with emotion. His lips were curled with wry anger. He was so close to touching her mouth with his. All she needed to do was raise her head a fraction of an inch and they would be …

House's cell phone rang.

They didn't jump away from one another, but the moment – for, indeed, it had been a moment – was destroyed by the shrill pitch emitting from his jacket. House backed away slowly from Cameron and pulled the phone from his pocket. Turning from her, he pressed it to his ear. Cameron took the opportunity to catch her breath and calm her heartbeat.

House's conversation was short and mostly one sided. It didn't take Cameron long to figure out that his patient was crashing.

"I'll be fine," she said in an attempt to ease his concerned look when he finished the call. She could tell that while he knew he needed to get to his patient, he didn't like leaving her behind. One thing she had learned about House over the years was that when he committed to something, he saw it through from beginning to end. It was just _getting_ him to commit to something that was almost unheard of. "I need a nap anyway. I promise not to take up full-contact karate while you're gone."

"Cute. I've put all of the perishables away so they won't spoil," he said, gesturing to the remaining bags on the counter. He grabbed his cane as he limped to the front door, "But if I find that you put away so much as that box of onion soup mix, I'll not be held responsible for my actions."

"Go save your patient," she told him, her voice understanding.

House paused for a moment, his hand on the door knob. His eyes were intent upon hers; he wanted to say something else, but he thought better of it and left the apartment.

With a quick twist of the bolt, Cameron locked the door behind him and leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the frame. It had been an eventful day, and it wasn't even noon yet. She almost hesitated to ask what the rest of her Sunday would bring.

**

Though she had told House that she planned to take a nap while he was gone, it was another two hours before Cameron finally lay down on her bed to do so. She had been starving, so she heated up the remains of the wonton soup in the microwave and ate it with some string cheese and crackers they had bought at the grocery. Popping down two of her Percocet to keep ahead of the pain she could feel starting to build under her right arm, she then headed for the bathroom and a quick sponge bath. Cameron couldn't wait until her appointment with Wilson tomorrow afternoon. She was scheduled to have her stitches and drains removed. Once that was done she could finally have a real shower.

Her hair – secure in its ponytail as it had been for most of the last week – was driving her crazy. The nurses had helped her wash it before she left the hospital, but that had been almost three days ago, and though the 'dry' shampoo she was to use in the meantime smelled nice, it made her hair feel dried out, stiff, and not at all clean. More than once Cameron considered shaving off the long, blonde curls altogether. She was going to lose it anyway, wasn't she?

Tossing into the hamper the loose cotton pants and button down shirt she wore, Cameron ran water in the sink to warm while she grabbed a wash cloth and her apricot gel from the shower caddy. Turning back, she caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror above the sink. She stood straight, but she looked oddly off balance. It was the wide, thick surgical dressing had taken the place of her right breast that made her appear so. Her left breast still sat high and firm on her chest, though if she was honest, not as high or firm as it had been just a few years ago.

Staring her reflection, Cameron fingered the edges of the clear surgical tape that held the bandage in place wondering for the countless time if she should just do it, just look and get it over with. Wilson would never let her hear the end of it if she came to her appointment tomorrow not having taken this critical emotional and psychological step.

Keeping her eyes trained on her reflection in the mirror, Cameron took a deep breath and tugged on the corner of a piece of tape. It stuck firmly to her skin. Her nurse had done a good job making sure her handiwork would last through the weekend.

She tugged again. The tape pulled back an inch under the pressure, leaving the skin beneath pink and just a bit hazy with adhesive. Her hand began to shake, and an unexpected wave of nausea washed over her. Heart racing, Cameron grabbed the edge of the sink and quickly sat down on the closed lid of the commode. She dropped her head between her legs, breathing cautiously to try to regain control.

Tears slipped silently down her face onto the cold, hard tile beneath her bare feet.

She couldn't do it. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow when she got home, after the stitches were out.

What about Wilson?

He would just have to learn to live with disappointment, she decided.

Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, Cameron stood up and soaked the washcloth in the running water. Taking a breath that was as cleansing as the shower gel she lathered onto the cloth, she began her bath.

She didn't look into the mirror again.

When she was dry, Cameron slipped into a fresh pair of underwear and her favorite yoga pants. She padded carefully to her closet and slipped on a new, dark purple button-down shirt she had bought before her surgery. Unlike the ones she typically wore to work, her new wardrobe of shirts was simple, unadorned, and loosely cut. In fact, she had purchased them – fifteen in all – on clearance from the men's department. The thicker fabric of the winter weave and the bagginess as it hung on her small frame were perfect for disguising that which she didn't want to share with the whole world.

By the time she pulled back the covers of her bed, Cameron felt like she could sleep for a week. The Percocet had finally kicked in, and the sharp pain that had started along the right side of her chest had turned to a dull ache. Tucking the new body pillow Wilson had given her beneath her right arm for support, she nestled into the feather pillows behind her and closed her eyes.

In spite of her fatigue, sleep was slow in coming. She had kept herself busy these last few hours so she wouldn't have to think about her encounter in the kitchen with House. Now that she was at rest, she didn't know _what_ to think.

House was still the acerbic son-of-a-bitch she fell in love with. Still the same curmudgeonly bastard that she knew she would never have. He still pushed her, questioned her, and mocked her. For all that, though, there was a new element about him that she was beginning to sense but still could not name.

Worry? She had seen him worried before. Was that it? In spite of his protestations and actions to the contrary, House was not a callous man.

Correction, _generally_ speaking he was about as insensitive a human being as they came, but for those who were close to him, for those few he let past the stronghold guarding his heart, he cared deeply – Foreman when he was dying from the _Naegleria_ parasite, Wilson after Amber's death, Cuddy after Joy's mother had taken the baby back. Cameron suspected that House was worried about her. He would never admit it, but with House actions usually spoke much louder than words when his emotions were in play. Why else would he choose taking care of her as his blackmail payout? No. He might be worried about her – odd considering he still claimed that he didn't even _like_ her – but that wasn't what she sensed.

Passion?

Well, lust had never been a problem between them. The current of sexual tension that had ebbed and flowed through the Diagnostics Department for the three years Cameron had worked for House was the stuff of legend – if one believed all that the hospital gossips had to say on the subject. Those gossips would have had a field day with the scene in her kitchen. Cameron could still feel the sensual pressure of his hand as it curled around her hip, holding her in place against the wall, but unlike the game of cat and mouse he had played with her for so many years, there was more to it this time.

She had seen it in his eyes. House had been genuinely irritated when she called him 'Daddy', and seemed to have set out to prove that he had no intention of playing the elderly patriarch in their odd, little, non-family unit. What he would have done, what _they_ would have done, had he not been called to the hospital …

Cameron chose, very deliberately, _not_ to think about it or she'd never get any rest.

Even as the effects of the medication insisted she sleep, pulling her down into the dreamlessness that had been her refuge since the surgery, Cameron's mind struggled to hold fast as it replayed her interactions with House over the last few days. The insistent way in which he made sure she kept ahead of the pain, the understanding but unvoiced laughter in his eyes as she struggled with her surgical drains, the gentleness of his hands over hers as he taught her to use the game control of the video game …

She was on to something, she was sure of it, but the pull of the narcotic became unrelenting. Her mind became a jumble of images, none of which she could fit together anymore. As she surrendered to sleep, Cameron tried desperately to cling to her final thought. One that she knew held her answer but would likely be gone from her when she woke.

Why? Why had he had been so tender …

**

Save for the dim glow which came from the guest bathroom, the apartment was dark when House opened the door. He had been gone nearly twelve hours, and he was mentally and physically exhausted. The headache which had formed after spending only 15 minutes in the company of his ducklings had continued to throb throughout the day in spite of the several Vicodin he had taken for his leg which hurt even more than his head did.

He needed a drink.

However, he gravitated not to the kitchen and his favorite bottle of scotch. Instead, House found himself leaning on his cane in the doorway of Cameron's bedroom watching her sleep. She looked terribly uncomfortable propped up as she was against the tall stack of pillows. She was a side-sleeper by nature, she had told him – her right side – and he knew that it would be a long time before she was ready to sleep comfortably in that position again. The pillows, especially the long one under her right arm, kept her from moving around too much as she slept, but she was by no means comfortable.

He watched her sleep.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He watched her eyelids flutter in the depths of REM. He watched her long, graceful finger clench and slacken in response to a dream she probably would not remember. He watched her lips purse, then frown, the curve into a slight smile that brought a small, sad one to his own.

House moved closer to her bed, and still he watched her sleep, grateful for the knowledge that she would awaken come the morning.

He rubbed his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. He was weary down to his bones. He felt defeated. He felt alone.

"House?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. Cameron's eyes were questioning yet warm in spite of the haze of sleep that still clung to her mind.

"We got the diagnosis," House said in answer to her unasked question. "It _was_ Lupus, after all."

"Really?" She was stunned. When last she heard, the patient had been presenting new symptoms that weren't indicative of Lupus.

"But it wasn't _just_ Lupus. F_ulminant myocarditis_."

"You're kidding me!" Cameron pushed herself up in bed. "Sudden onset viral heart disease? The odds of contracting it are ..."

"One in a million … literally," House confirmed. His voice was flat, hollow. "I caught it too late. Mrs. Timmerman died about an hour ago."

"House … I'm ..." Cameron had been about to say that she was sorry, but she stopped the words before they completely formed in her throat. In his mind, House had failed. He had failed to solve the puzzle, and therefore had failed to beat the disease that killed his patient. Nothing she could say would be a balm to the mental wounds he would inflict upon himself. "You must be tired," she said instead.

He nodded.

"Lie down," she said, indicating the empty space on the bed next to her.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "As much as I know you'd like me to take you up on your offer, I'm not really up for bedroom gymnastics tonight, and I sure as hell know you're not," House said, seeking shelter in his sarcasm.

"It wasn't that kind of offer, and you know it. Suit yourself," she said, shrugging her shoulders indifferently. Cameron knew that pressing this issue would only solidify his resolve. Taking a pain pill from the bottle on her nightstand, she swallowed it with water from her glass and settled back down among the pillows, closing her eyes. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

Fifteen seconds turned to thirty, thirty turned to forty-five as she lay there with her eyes closed, wondering if she had seriously misinterpreted House's actions earlier that day. Her offer of support and comfort had been genuine with no ulterior motives, but if he was still as indifferent to her as he had always claimed to be, she would sleep alone tonight.

At seventy seconds Cameron had accepted her fate when she heard first one running shoe then another drop to the floor. They were followed by a rustle of fabric that she assumed was his jacket. The mattress next to her dipped, and when she opened her eyes, House lay next to her, eyes closed, arms folded casually over his stomach.

"Sleep well, House," she said before closing her eyes again.

Cameron was almost asleep when he moved again. She felt his fingers brush hesitantly against hers, and then thinking her asleep, he caressed the inside of her palm before claiming her hand completely with his own.

* * *

**Did you enjoy? Let me know your thoughts. Thanks so much!**


	11. Chapter 10: Facing Facts

I had hoped to have this up a bit earlier in the week, but a nasty cold, in addition to work, kept me from the computer.

There were so many wonderful reviews for the last chapter. Thank you so much. It always brightens my day to read what you all specifically like about these chapters. I look forward to maybe getting more feedback with this one, too.

I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter 10: Facing Facts**

* * *

"What did you do to her?" Wilson demanded as he stormed into the glass-enclosed office. House caught the rebound of his tennis ball off the wall without looking at it.

"Is there a particular 'her' to which you are referring, or would any 'her' suffice? I don't particularly recommend doing the Cuddy 'her', she's far too hormonal since getting the parasite, and the Thirteen 'her' just isn't all that erotic since she decided to forsake women in favor of Dark Chocolate; though I hear tell that once you've gone black, you'll never –"

"Allison," Wilson clarified, pointing in the direction of his exam room where he had just finished removing said 'her's' stitches. "You somehow convinced her to let _you_ take care of her. Hell, she told me that you even moved in with her – 'for the duration.' A week ago she was adamant that no one help her, yet in one night you manage to completely change her mind. So, I ask again, what did you do to her?"

"Why you do automatically assume it was something underhanded or conniving?" House was insulted.

Wilson snorted in disbelief. "Because it always is!"

"I suppose the fact that I just used my considerable natural charm and powers of persuasion to –"

"House, Egyptian asps have more natural charm than you do."

"Now that was just mean," House said with a pout.

"House!"

House was out of options, out of evasions, and he knew it. Wilson would hound him until he gave up the goods, or, worse, he would weasel the answer out of Cameron in such a way that Cameron wouldn't _realize_ it had been weaseled out of her. House couldn't let that happen. Better it come from him. In his own way, Wilson was just as manipulative as he was. House dropped his eyes from Wilson's and toyed with the continuous seam on the tennis ball. Might as well get this over with.

"Blackmail," he mumbled. He had been right. It was an ugly word. He hated the way it tasted on his lips.

"What did you say? I'm … I'm sorry, I must have had a mini stroke or seizure. I thought I heard you say that you are blackmailing Allison Cameron so that she'll let you take care of her while she undergoes treatment for cancer."

"That pretty much sums it up."

Wilson stared at him for several long seconds. "Unbelievable!" He tossed his hands in the air and began to pace in front of the adjoining door to the conference room. "How do you do it? Just when I think you have sunk as low as you can get, you come up with something new. You've reached the point where even sewer rats wouldn't have anything to do with you."

"It's not as bad as all that," House said, still not meeting his friends eyes. In fact, it was worse.

"She's a cancer patient, for God's sake! You are blackmailing a _cancer_ patient!"

"Hey!" House spun his chair forward to face his friend. "I seriously doubt she's the first cancer patient ever to be blackmailed for –"

"What could you _possibly_ have on Allison that would cause her to let you do this?" Wilson sounded tired. "Would you tell me that, please?"

"Nothing."

Wilson's glare intensified.

"Really, I've got _nothing_. Well, more than she wishes I had, but not anything near what she _fears_ I have."

"What does that even mean?"

"While she was on the narcotics, Cameron … might have mumbled a few titillating tidbits about a weekend in Cabo with Chase, and I _might_ have added a few creative details of my own to fill in the blanks and flesh out the fantasy a bit. Then I _might_ have threatened to post all the dirty details online …"

Wilson sat down heavily in the chair across from House's desk and shook his head.

"But that was _all_ I got out of her. She clammed up after that. Friday night, she asked for proof, so I gave her the Cabo story, but –"

"You let her think there was a lot more to it than just that."

"Pretty much."

It had been a masterful plan – by far the best House had conceived in the last year, and it had been necessary. Cameron couldn't and shouldn't go through this alone. Unfortunately, she had just needed a little _prodding_ to understand the truth of it all.

House had never before questioned whether or not the ends were justified by the means he employed to attain them. Of _course_ they were.

Always.

Maybe.

Perhaps not where Cameron was concerned.

House squeezed the oversized tennis ball tightly in his hands. Oh, God. What if he had fucked up?

He knew he had hurt her with his exploitation of her drug-induced lapse. As he replayed the events of that evening over in his mind, House was unprepared for the twinge of guilt he felt at having manipulated her in the way he had.

For Pete's sake, when did you start giving a damn what other people think?

You don't give a damn what other _people_ think, but you do give a damn what _she_ thinks.

Oh, shut up!

Leaning over, Wilson braced his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. "I can't believe this," he mumbled. "It's … It's too .. too …"

"Sordid? Base? Calculating?" House suddenly saw himself and what he had done through Wilson's eyes, and he wondered if the portrait of himself that hung in the closet had finally turned into a complete fiend.

"It's brilliant!" Wilson countered with a smile.

"What?" House was incredulous. This was not the reaction he had been expecting. Wilson looked almost proud of him.

"Oh, I'm not saying there won't be hell to pay when Cameron figures out how you manipulated her – and she _will_ figure it out, so if I were you, I'd make sure my passport is current – but she would have continued to dig in her heels if you took the direct approach. It's perfect!"

House stared at his friend, his mouth hanging open in his surprise. "Okay," he drawled slowly. "What in the hell is going on. You actually _like_ this idea, and _I'm_ the one who's feeling guilty. Maybe I'm the one having the stroke 'cause this sure as shit isn't making a lick of sense."

Wilson sobered at House's statement. "You feel guilty? Wow. Why?"

House couldn't put into words the reasons for his guilt, so he didn't even try. "How is she?" he asked.

Wilson understood what his friend was doing, and allowed the topic to change. The fact that House could feel guilt over anything was a large step for the man. The fact that he could feel guilt over something he had done to Cameron – well, Wilson decided then and there to buy a lottery ticket on his way home from work.

"She's healing well. The incision – well, it isn't my best work considering I had to stitch it up twice – but MacPherson will take care of that when he does the reconstruction."

"Where do we go from here?"

Wilson picked up immediately on the 'we' in House's statement, but decided, too, to let that slide. He had sensed big changes in House over the last week and a half – changes he was sure were due in large part to Allison Cameron – yet Wilson knew his friend well enough that any comments on his part would severely curtail any progress he might make.

"We're going to use 'sandwich therapy'," Wilson said. Cameron had given him permission to share everything with House – yet another telling clue. "Three cycles of chemo –"

"Then five weeks of radiation, followed by another three cycles of chemotherapy," House finished for him. "What? I've been reading up." He shrugged his shoulders at Wilson's look of surprise. Sure, cancer was still boring, but this particular cancer a little bit less so. "When does she start?"

"Three weeks. Allison wants to get in to see her dentist and her gynecologist before we start tinkering with her immune system. She's down talking with the nurses now. Said she'd meet you here when she was done"

"Port-a-Cath or IV?"

"Port," Wilson said. By implanting a chemotherapy port directly in her upper chest wall, it would save Cameron considerable time and discomfort during her treatments.

House nodded thoughtfully. Good choices.

"She still hasn't looked at the scar." Wilson's voice was soft, worried.

"I know."

"She has to, House. It will only get harder with time."

House's jaw tightened and he rubbed absently at the large, rough scar that dominated his right thigh. "I know that, too."

"If you're going to be there for her, _this_ is the first opportunity."

House pursed his lips, his eyes were grave, and spun his chair to face the windows. "I'll see what I can do."

**

"I'm going to go take a shower," Cameron told him as they entered her apartment four hours later. She draped her coat over the rack behind the door, set her purse on the dining room table, and made a bee-line for her bedroom. She'd been waiting for this for four days.

"If you need someone to lather you up, let me know," House called after her as he plopped down onto her sofa. He heard he laugh lightly at his lecherous suggestion and felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. She really did have nice laugh.

Grumbling at the turn his train of thought had taken, House grabbed the remote and flipped on the television. Scanning through the hundreds of stations available to him on her satellite system, he searched for something, anything to keep his mind off of Allison Cameron all wet and soapy in the shower.

Hmm. _The Exorcist_ ought to do it.

While Regan levitated herself off the bed – still pretty cool taking into account that the film was nearly 40 years old – House considered the way in which his day began. The throbbing in his leg had woke him up early that morning as it usually did, but when House opened his eyes to search for his Vicodin bottle, he opened them to the sight of Cameron's sleeping face mere inches from his own. His first instinct had been to bolt from the bed, but given how badly his leg was throbbing he would probably have fallen flat on his face. Her skin smelled of apricots and House had found himself leaning closer to catch her scent. He inhaled deeply, letting that calming sweetness fill his senses. Dropping his eyes from her face, he noticed that in spite of the fact he was practically nose to nose with his former immunologist, their bodies were spread far apart from one another. She still mostly on her side of the bed, he still mostly on his – no, not _his_ side of the bed, but on the other side of the bed that was not her side.

House flipped the channel again. Clearly, even split-pea soup vomit wasn't enough to distract his thoughts. _Cujo_! Yes! Rabid St. Bernards were just what he needed.

Their bodies did not touch save for one exception. House still held Cameron's hand clutched in his own, but at some point during the short night he had pressed it to his chest. Palm down, he had held it fast against his heart, only the thin cotton of his shirt separating her flesh from his.

Okay … maybe not _Cujo_. So much for 'man's best friend'. Idly, he flipped through the channels. Over a thousand stations and still not a damn thing to watch!

Running the tip of his finger along the edges of each of hers, House had been mesmerized by the elegance of each digit, the delicate curve of each unpolished fingernail. For some inexplicable reason, he had been about to press his lips to the pad of her thumb when Cameron stirred slightly next to him. The tip of her nose brushed against his cheek; her lips, ever so slightly parted in sleep, warmed his skin with her exhalations.

He studied her face a moment more, then resisting the urge to press his lips to her brow, House pulled his hand from hers and slipped from the bed. Grabbing his jacket and his cane from the hope chest at the end of the bed where he had left them, he had limped painfully to the living room, popped two Vicodin, and eventually fell back to sleep on the couch which is where Cameron found him two hours later.

House turned his attention back to the television and almost jumped at the voiced-over opening lines of the movie playing on the screen:

"_What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. The Beatles. And me ..."_

Gah! _Love Story_. Turn it off! Turn it off!

Giving up, House pulled himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen. Popping the cap off a beer he pulled from the fridge, he was started by the sudden grumble that emitted from his stomach. It was well past dinner, he realized. They should eat something.

The beer bottle hung motionless at his lips. When had '_he_ should eat' become '_they_ should eat'? Swallowing a mouthful of brew, he set the bottle on the counter.

It suddenly felt as though the walls of the apartment were closing in on him. When had he lost control of this situation? There was House, and there was Cameron – two separate and distinct people. There was no 'they'. There was no 'them'.

House.

Cameron.

House.

He was here only to take care of her. Maybe he shouldn't have moved in. That's it. He should just go back home and check in on her every so often. Maybe she had been right. The home nurse was the way to go. She didn't need _him_, after all. It could be anyone, so why not hire someone to do the job? Why should he get involved anyway? It's not like she meant anything to him. He'd tell her he was going home when she got out of the shower.

It was then that House noticed that the apartment was strangely silent. Cameron had gone in to take her shower nearly 20 minutes ago, but it had finally occurred to him that he had ever heard the water run. The pipes in her building were old and rattled in the walls like an old woman's bones on a winter day, but the clattering had never come.

Something was wrong.

He hobbled quickly to her bedroom. The door was ajar, and he could see her standing in front of the large pedestal mirror in the corner next to her bathroom.

"Cameron?" He pushed the door open and stepped inside. She did not turn when he entered, but she seemed to know he was there. Her eyes were fixated on her reflection in the mirror. She was still fully clothed, though the top two buttons of her shirt had been undone. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and he noted the dampness of her cheek in the glow from the lamp at her bedside.

"Cameron?" he asked again, stepping behind her; he resisted the urge to put his hand on her shoulder.

She dropped her chin to her chest. A deep sob issued from her throat as she struggled to speak without breaking down completely. Reaching out, her small hand sought out his larger one. She squeezed his fingers tightly.

Her eyes, full of tears, met his in the reflection of the mirror.

"Help me," she pleaded in a whisper that caused his heart to twist in his chest. She didn't need to clarify her request. He knew what she wanted him to do. He knew, too, that in that moment, Allison Cameron trusted him – the arrogant, self-centered, manipulative bastard – unconditionally. He was left shaken by that knowledge.

Swallowing hard, House clutched Cameron's hand one last time before hooking his cane on foot of her bed. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of her own reflection. Reaching out, he brushed a tear from her cheek. Flexing his fingers, he grasped the fabric of her shirt above the third button. His eyes sought out hers again, and the look of affirmation he saw in those green depths moved him to action.

One by one House slipped the buttons from their holes until the shirt hung open. Lifting her left hand, House pressed it to the left side of her shirt so she could hold it in place. This wasn't a striptease, after all, and she was touched at his concern for her modesty.

He unbuttoned the cuff at her right wrist. His fingers trembled slightly as he took hold of the right flap of her shirt and pulled the fabric aside. Lifting her arm, House slid it from the sleeve, making sure not to jar the arm too much. Unsheathed, he lowered it again to her side and folded the shirt behind her back, out of the way.

Cameron's skin was bruised and battered. It looked more as if she had been in a car accident than had had surgery. Wilson had replaced the bulky dressing with a series of smaller adhesive backed pads designed to absorb the minimal amount of blood that would have seeped from her wounds after the stitches were removed.

House reached out and touched the edge of the first bandage. Cameron stiffened under his touch, and he looked quickly at her. Her eyes were full of fear. Not of him, but of what she was soon to see. Gently he pulled back the bandage, revealing the first bit of hidden flesh to the soft light of the room. His fingers sought out the next bandage, and then the next, repeating the process until the final dressing fell to wooden floor next to its fellows.

His eyes never left hers.

Desperately she reached out her right hand and grasped his tightly. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Cameron took a deep breath, calmed herself, and then opened her eyes.

House felt his heart twist again at the agonized cry that died in her throat.

Cameron's mind struggled to make sense of what she was looking at. Jerking the rest of her shirt from her body, Cameron pushed House to the side and stared at it full in the mirror. The bruised, bloody, and swollen flesh looked as though it belonged to someone else. She looked deformed, hideous like some misshapen creature from her childhood nightmares, but this time her father would not come into her room to chase away the demons, to keep her safe from the monsters.

This time, the monster was real.

"It can't be me." Her agonized whisper reached House's ears. Though he had stood with her at her side, House had kept his eyes averted out of respect for her privacy, but at her words, something inside him snapped.

"Shouldn't," he growled, "not _can't_ be you. It _shouldn't_ be you, but it is and you have to face that."

"You bastard," she said. Her eyes that met his in the mirror were filled with both anger and tears.

"We established that fact five years ago, wanna try for some new material?" he asked coldly.

"Why I thought you would be able to feel sorry for anyone –"

"No!" He spun her around to face him. Her shirt, still caught on her wrist at the cuff, swirled around their feet. He knew that she was reacting out of fear and doubt, but he was not about to let her go down the path that he once walked. "If it's pity you want, you're right, you _won't_ get that from me. Might try Chase though. That boy's full of enough pity for anyone he can lay it on. When one's worst illness is an infected hangnail, how in the hell can you expect them to know what you're going through, to be able to support you?"

"Oh, and I can guess that you know what I need?"

"Empathy," he spat. "_Understanding_ from someone who's been there, who knows what it's like to face death. _Courage _from someone who knows what it's like to lose a part of yourself and wonder if you'll _ever_ be whole again. _Strength_ from someone who can kick your ass and get you moving again when all you want to do is curl up in a ball and die from the pain."

"And that person is you, I suppose?" she asked haughtily.

"You're damned right it is," he snarled. Grabbing her roughly, House pulled her into his arms and pressed her body to his. She struggled against him, but his arms held firm at her shoulders. He would not let her go. "You deserve more than pity, Cameron. Pity will only make you weak. I can't let that happen."

Suddenly, something within her simply broke. The tears that she had managed to keep at bay for so long began to flow freely as the torrent of emotion within her broke free of its floodgates. House wrapped his arms about her body, shielding her nakedness from the light of the room, and held her as she cried. He felt the asymmetrical contours of her chest pressing into his and realized that for the first time in a very long while, he had a purpose – a purpose beyond that of his own curiosity or selfish needs and whims.

"You're strong, Cameron," he whispered against her hair. "You're the strongest person I know, but I'm not about to let you fall."

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**Feedback? Pretty please?**


	12. Chapter 11: Tipping Points

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. This one was _not_ easy to write.

There were so many wonderful comments posted for the last chapter. I am truly appreciative of them all.

As always, I hope that you enjoy the chapter that follows. Your continued support and feedback is always so helpful!

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Tipping Points**

* * *

Cameron returned to work a week later. While her role in the ER was now mostly administrative, she still managed to sneak in a few patients here and there. The ducklings were working out well in their rotations; Kutner seemed to have a natural gift for Emergency Medicine and was thriving in his new environment, though he still loved the thrill of the unknown that was Diagnostics.

Cuddy kept Cameron on a tight leash. No double or triple shifts, and when her singles came to an end, the Dean of Medicine was there to make sure Cameron clocked out promptly. Cuddy didn't go so far as to escort her up to House's office at the end of each day, but Cameron didn't fail to notice that Wilson made it his business to be returning from a 'quick coffee break' at just about that time every afternoon, so he and Cameron would usually ride the elevator up together. Cameron didn't mind the mothering. She was more than ready to leave each day. While she loved her job and the much needed mental inspiration it provided her, by the end of the first week she realized that the physical demands of the job were becoming increasingly overwhelming and would only get worse once the chemo started.

Though Wilson had given her the all-clear to start driving again after her first week back, House continued to rise 'at the outrageously uncivilized hour' of six in the morning to take her to work – Cameron had been completely unable to dissuade him from the task. He would then sack out on the sofa in his office, blinds drawn, until about ten. His team learned quickly not to try to rouse him any earlier – Taub still bore bruises on his shin where House had whacked him with his cane when the former plastic surgeon woke him at seven-thirty to give him data on a prospective patient.

The echoes of Taub's unmanly scream of pain were heard as far away as Maternity.

At the end of her day, Cameron would meet House in his office and they would go back to her apartment. Some nights they ate together, some nights he went out with Wilson, some nights he went out by himself. Cameron never asked where he was going, and he didn't volunteer. She always left on the light in the guest bathroom for him, and he always checked to make sure she was sleeping peacefully when he came back in.

A subtle yet marked change had taken place in their relationship. Though they had grown closer in the days immediately following her surgery, there had still been a certain distance that he had kept from her, and she from him. It was as if they were fearful of what might happen if they got too close.

All that changed once House had seen her stripped naked both in body and spirit. Rather than mock or belittle her, he had shared with her some of his strength, had refused to allow her to stumble head-long into misery, had held her close and infused her with the ability to move forward to what the next day would bring. The walls that they had built up between each other and within themselves had started to collapse.

They were more comfortable with one another. They started to learn one another's quirks and habits. He ridiculed her inability to eat apples without first peeling every last piece of sink from the flesh; she poked fun at his secret Neil Diamond playlist. He lulled her into a music-lover's paradise the first time she heard him play piano during quick pit stop at his apartment one afternoon – she refused to leave until he played at least one piece.

"No! _Chopsticks_ doesn't count!" she admonished as he began to plunk out the childhood standard.

House thought for a moment, his blue eyes intent upon hers. Turning back to the piano, he closed his eyes and guided his fingers effortlessly across the keys. His interpretation of Chopin's _Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Minor_ had left her breathless.

Later that night in her living room, he stared in horrified fascination at her unnatural skill with the mouth harp – she had learned to play it one summer at camp.

"I always suspected that you could give an expert tongue-lashing if you ever set your mind to it. What you can do with your mouth is clearly a gift from God, but don't _ever_ make me watch that again!" he said with awed disgust.

In short, they had finally become friends.

"It's not uncommon to have more than one friend, you know," Wilson told him. "I promise not to be jealous of her so long as you save me a spot on the swings at recess."

House sipped his scotch and spared a quick glare at his friend. He stood at the bar and watched Cameron where she sat with the rest of the 'crew' near the pool tables. Foreman and Chase had suggested a 'Pre-Chemo Party' at The Bull and Bush Pub across from the hospital as a way to help Cameron relax and enjoy herself before her first chemotherapy treatment the next day – Cuddy, Thirteen, Taub, Kutner, and even Nurse Carolyn from Oncology had joined in. House had originally declined – he had nearly three weeks of Tivoed episodes of _MANswers_ to watch – but when he heard Chase volunteer to drive Cameron home after the party, he found himself leaning against the bar, nursing his single-malt as he suffered through Wilson's pathetic attempts to deride his people skills.

"Cameron looks good," Wilson commented, following House's gaze across the pub. She was smiling at something Taub had said. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and House noticed how the tendrils around her face brushed softly against her cheek.

"She's tired," House corrected.

"She's recovering well from the surgery." Wilson took a sip of his beer and munched on a handful of nuts from the dish next to him.

"She thinks she looks like a demon-spawned from hell itself." More than once in the last few weeks, House had struggled to resist the intense desire to smash every mirror in her apartment with his cane.

"She beautiful!" Wilson protested. He pointed at Cameron as if his gesture was sufficient enough of an explanation. After all, empirical evidence _was_ empirical evidence. "The scar will be taken care of when the breast is reconstructed.

"God! For all you like to play at being 'Dr. Empathy,' you're a real moron sometimes."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean," Wilson demanded, offended.

"The mental scars don't automatically fade just because the physical ones do."

"I know that."

"Do you? You've cornered the market and put your personal trademark on guilt and emotional traumas, but you've never had a part of yourself sliced off and thrown away like yesterday's trash. It fucks with the head in ways you'd never imagine. This one's bad enough," House indicated his right thigh, "but it's a limb, a handy appendage, not a representation of my individuality. If I'd have had the balls, I'd have made the tough decision and had them cut the damn thing off just like she did." He sipped again from his scotch. "Cameron's lost a lot more than a body part, Jimmy, and she afraid she'll never find her way back to who she was before the cancer."

"She told you this?" Wilson was in awe.

"Not in so many words."

"Then how do you …"

"Do you even _know_ how to let things go?" House waved the bartender over for a refill – a double, neat.

"This coming from the King of Other People's Business?" House glared at him. "Fine," said Wilson, tossing his hands up in defeat. "Here's me letting go."

House's drink was replaced and the two drank in silence for several minutes as patrons and servers bustled about them. Across the room, Cameron leaned back against the padded back of her chair and pulled at the collar of her shirt, making sure that not a single inch of her chest was exposed. The fact that the buttons were already done up to the top seemed of little consolation. She glanced around the pup looking for something. When her gaze settled on House sitting at the bar, she relaxed a bit, her hand dropped from the fabric of her shirt, and she returned to her conversation with Cuddy and Foreman.

Wilson watched her movements with a critical eye. Suddenly he understood. "You saw it, didn't you?"

House knew Wilson meant the scar. So much for letting go. "Yes," he said after a moment.

"And?"

"And what? What information are you looking for here, Jimmy?" The irritation House had felt earlier at his friend's questioning flared into full annoyance. "You know what it looks like. Shit! You're the one who carved her up like a Thanksgiving turkey."

"I'm not a butcher."

"No, you're not. You're her best chance a living a long, cancer-free life, but right now she thinks she's repulsive; _that's_ what's she focusing on, _not_ the chemo . Not an opinion that's easy to change with a woman who _has_ all her body parts let alone one who's a bit short in the white meat department."

"She needs to hear differently."

"By all means," House indicated that Wilson should proceed.

"I'm not the one she needs to hear it from." Wilson's meaning was clear.

"Sorry, but I don't quote Shakespeare, and I left my copy of _1,001 Platitudes to Lift Your Girlfriend's Spirits_ in my other pants."

"Pants which are currently in Cameron's apartment."

House drained his drink and slammed the glass on the smooth, mahogany bar top. "Good night, Wilson," he said pointedly. Grabbing his cane, he stalked off toward the larger group of doctors. Wilson watched as House indicated to Cameron that he was leaving and if she wanted to ride with him, she'd have to go now – even at a distance, Wilson was knowledgeable in the subtleties of Houseian body language. Cameron grabbed her bag, and with quick goodbyes all around, met House at the door he was holding open for her and the pair disappeared down the street.

In their nearly 20 year friendship, Wilson couldn't remember a conversation with House that had been filled with more sub-text than the one they had just finished. House was more concerned about Cameron's pain than his own. He thought about situations in terms of how they would affect her life and emotions, not just his. He had referred to Cameron – indirectly, but he had _still_ done it – as his girlfriend.

House had fallen hard for Cameron, and he didn't even know it. In Wilson's eyes, House had proven it with one gesture. One motion that for any other man would have been common courtesy, but when ignored by House was proof of his self-absorption.

House had held open the door for her.

**

House sat by the window in Cameron's favorite chair, his leg propped up on the ottoman, the ruby chenille throw crumpled in the corner next to the fireplace where he had tossed it. A cool breeze slipped through the curtains of the partially opened window, and the bouquet of Glenfiddich, 30 year-old scotch whiskey filled his nose. He took a sip of the liquor and let it roll over his tongue. The smooth oakiness caressed his mouth, the hint of sherry teased his taste buds, and when he finally swallowed, the lingering taste of honey finished the experience.

Perfection in a glass.

He had found the limited-edition single malt gathering dust in the recesses of Cameron's poorly stocked liquor cabinet when he had run out of his an hour ago. He hadn't pegged Chase for a scotch drinker, and he knew that Cameron sure as hell wasn't. At most, it was missing only two fingers from the bottle. It was an outrageously expensive container of spirits – over six hundred dollars easily. He wondered why it was there.

Yawning and stretching the kinks out of his back, House considered going to bed. He had planned to, was even dressed for it, but the need for another scotch had usurped his plans. He squinted to read the clock on the mantle above the fireplace in the dark apartment – he hadn't felt the need to bother with the lights. It was so late he could call it early. Cameron had been in bed for hours; he should have been, too, given what tomorrow would bring. It had been a long evening, and he had much to think about. They had watched TV for awhile after they got home from the pub before she pleaded exhaustion and took off to bed. As she did every night when he was there, Cameron thanked him for everything he had done for her that day, and she hoped he slept well. She would see him in the morning.

Cameron had been oddly quiet since coming home. House attributed her reserve to exhaustion and discomfort – the pain from the nerve damage done by the surgery had picked up significantly in the last two days, and she had also developed some pleurisy in her right lung. And, of course, there was the chemotherapy tomorrow. Neither of them knew what to expect.

House swallowed the two Vicodin he had set on the side table.

Wilson had chosen an Adriamycin/Cytoxan combination followed by Taxol once Cameron's radiation therapy was completed. Nausea, loss of appetite, and hair loss were almost guaranteed, but it was anyone's guess as to what other little gems might pop up along the way. House had come up with some crazy, unorthodox, and downright dangerous treatments in his day to cure his patients, but he had always been of the opinion that chemotherapy was among the most brutal of therapies available to modern medicine – necessary, but brutal.

Wooden floorboards groaned behind him.

"You're not asleep," he said, taking another sip of his scotch. He didn't bother to look around though he could feel the press of Cameron's green eyes on him.

"Your powers of perception, as always, are astounding."

"Ooh. Bitchy, too."

"Shut up, House." He heard her rustling around in the kitchen. Glass clinked against glass as she pulled one from the cabinet above the microwave, a few more creaks were followed by the soft pad of her bare feet against the wooden floorboards, and then she was standing in front of him, pouring herself a measure of scotch from the bottle on the table next to him.

"Probably not the best idea you've ever had," House commented wryly as she swirled the amber liquid in the glass and then knocked it back. Her face crinkled – yeah, the Glenfiddich was _so_ not hers – as she squeezed her eyes shut at the burn.

"I've had worse ideas."

"I'll be sure to remind you of that tomorrow when you start puking before the Adriamycin so much as hits the vein." House grabbed the bottle from her hand when she reached for it again and tucked it protectively between his body and the arm of the chair. He looked up at her, annoyance clear in his expression. "You've wasted enough. Now sit down, would you? Leg hurts enough tonight without adding a crick in my neck to the mix."

He moved his leg to the edge of the ottoman as she sat down. He was suddenly grateful that he had thought to toss his robe over his boxers when he went in search of a drink. Moonlight filtered through the window and fell across her face. Her hair was rumpled and tangled from her restless sleep, her green eyes were tired from more than fatigue, and her face had a sheet crease embedded in the flesh of her otherwise smooth cheek.

She was beautiful.

"Why did you choose me as your medical proxy?" House asked.

Where in the hell had that question come from? Yeah, he had been thinking about it a lot in the last few days, but he certainly never planned to actually _ask_ her.

She, too, was surprised by his question and fumbled for an answer. "I … I wanted someone who could make the hard decisions if it ever came to that."

"Nice try. That's the answer you gave Wilson. That's the answer I _know_. If that was the only reason, you would have chosen Cuddy or Foreman – he at least owes you one for not pulling the plug on him when you had the chance. What's the answer I _don't_ know? What's the answer you're keeping locked up tight in that over-active head of yours."

"Not my head," she mumbled softly, but not softly enough. Her sleep-deprived mind had forgotten about the fact that House missed nothing.

"Explain."

One word.

One demand.

In that moment Allison Cameron decided that there was only one answer she would give – the truth, consequences be damned. Three weeks ago, she _never_ would have told him. If they hadn't grown closer, likely she would have continued to keep her own counsel, but too much had already gone unsaid between them in the last five years. She couldn't guarantee herself another five months, and if she was to die, this would _not_ be one of her regrets.

She met his eyes directly. No more hiding. No more evading. She wanted him to see that she freely chose this path.

"Foreman could never have been my medical proxy. He's a friend, but if the tough decisions have to be made, I want them to be made by the one person I trust more than I trust myself."

"But why _me_? Why _that_ level of trust? That's what I don't get!" His voice had started to take on the tone of frustrated dread he felt whenever he knew the answer to the puzzle was almost within reach save for one, critical, elusive piece.

"Because I love you." Cameron shrugged as if he should have guessed from the very beginning what her answer would be – as if loving him was the most natural thing in the world.

The puzzle pieces instantly locked in place, but the picture it created was more bizarre than House could have imagined.

The sharpening of his gaze was the only physical indication that he had heard her. His eyes were no longer casual but burned with an intensity that caused her breath to catch in a way that the scotch hadn't even come close to matching.

"I don't expect for you feel the same," Cameron said. She knew he would need clarification. One didn't just drop a bombshell in House's lap and not explain the reasoning. The questions would come, so might as well give him all the answers now. "I know it's a cliché, romance novel response, and maybe I am Jane Eyre in this scenario, but I've managed to love alone and still thrive, still enjoy my life, not wither and die over that which is unattainable. But what I can't do is live in this apartment with you, this close to you, and continue to let you think that I see you only as the caregiver I reluctantly let into my home. It's not fair to you, and it's too painful for me."

She took a steadying breath. "I am in love with you, House, and now you know it."

"One scotch and you turn into a damned soap opera." His words were quiet; even he heard the skepticism in his voice. Though he didn't fully trust the words he spoke, he didn't know if he could believe hers, either.

"This isn't about the damned scotch, and you know it. Everybody lies, House. You taught me that, but what you never accept is that they don't lie _all_ the time. You've learned enough about me over the years to know that I would _never_ lie to you about this. This isn't misplaced gratitude or hero worship. I don't have time for that anymore – if I ever did. I'm not going to lie about or hide my feelings anymore, but what you choose to do for yourself is entirely up to you."

He said nothing. When his eyes dropped to the floor rather than continue to meet hers, Cameron realized that she had the answer to the question she had never – would never – ask him. She had gambled, and she had lost. Cameron stood and set her glass next to his on the table. She would take care of them in the morning. Right now all she wanted to do was go to bed and try to forget.

Before she could step around him, however, House grabbed her wrist tightly and would not let go. "You don't…" he faltered. His voice was raw. His face – shadowed in the half-light of the moonlit room – was tormented. His eyes were no longer intense.

They were vulnerable.

"Don't _what_, House?" In her voice he heard both sadness and frustration. She was tired of games she had no hope of winning. His next words would matter more than anything he had ever said to her, so they damn well better be good.

"You don't know how hard I have tried _not_ to like you," he whispered.

Cameron's eyes widened, but before she could say anything in response, House tugged once on her wrist and she was in his arms, his lips pressed to hers in a kiss so tender she felt she would shatter from the sheer splendor of it.

"Hurts too damn much to care …" he murmured against her lips before claiming them again. His hands – his gorgeous hands – stroked her face, her hair, her neck as his mouth moved sensuously across hers. House teased the tender flesh, licking lightly at her lower lip, entreating Cameron to yield and bring them both pleasure. She opened to him, and their tongues began a fervent dance that enflamed them both. She slipped her hands beneath the fabric of his robe and clutched at his bare shoulders before circling behind his head, fingers twining in his short, graying hair pulling him even closer.

She tasted of scotch, and faith, and love – a combination he instantly discovered was more addictive than Vicodin. Their first kiss had been born of her deception, her desire to trick him into getting what she wanted, and while House had always been tempted by the lure of forbidden fruit, that which was freely and unconditionally given was so much sweeter.

House was the first to pull away. He cradled Cameron's cheek in his hand and pressed his forehead to hers. His breath was ragged with emotion. "It really pisses me off that I never stood a chance against you."

His heart sat lightly in his chest at her laughter, and he pressed a chaste kiss to her temple before pulling back to look upon the magnificent creature he held in his arms. How she could possibly want him? He was old, caustic , the biggest son-of-a-bitch he knew. She'd be better off loving a rabid badger. In the long run, it would probably hurt less.

She saw uncertainty begin to cloud his eyes. "Fuck the doubt," she growled. Her kiss was brief but bruising, and he was surprised by the ferocity of it. "You know I'm not that complicated. I wear my heart on my sleeve, remember. _Never_ doubt that I love you."

House searched for the words he was sure she wanted to hear, but they would not come. His frustration was evident, so she kissed him again, this time lingeringly.

"Seven years, eight months, and fourteen days," she said when she pulled back, shifting slightly in his lap to ease the pressure she was certain she was putting on his leg.

"I see," though House most certainly didn't. "Kissing me has led you to start speaking in tongues. Not great for my self-esteem, thanks. What in the hell are you babbling about?"

"The baseball player, Hank Wiggen. His pregnant wife was willing to abort her baby to give him her kidney. You said that you probably wouldn't make that kind of sacrifice for someone unless you could get a guarantee they would live at least …

"… seven years, eight months, and fourteen days." He remembered now. It was right before he had asked her out on their non-date date. "My tipping point."

"I'm not looking for a life-time commitment here," she said, hoping to ease his mind.

"What _do_ you want?" He was suddenly wary.

"Just you and whatever you're able to give for however long we have."

The specter of her cancer loomed large in the room again. She took his hand and pressed it to her chest. He could feel the half-healed scars beneath the thin fabric of her nightshirt. Even when he had held her in his arms the night she first looked at her disfigured body, his contact had not been this direct, this overwhelming. Suddenly he could not bear the thought of what was to come for her.

"We'll consider renegotiating after seven years, eight months, and fourteen days," she said with a sarcastic smile.

House kissed her in response.

* * *

**Feedback? Please? Did you like?**


	13. Chapter 12: Onramp of the Road to Hell

Some of you asked why the last chapter was so hard for me to write, and it mostly has to do with the fact that writing about intimacy is a bit of a challenge. You'd think that after reading thousands of romance novels over the years, I'd have that down pat, but no. I just hate when it sounds trite, so I tend to overanalyze the passion – not a good thing.

One thing I would like everyone to keep in mind is that I am not a doctor. My information for this story comes strictly from online research and anecdotes from people I know who have had this form of cancer. Needless to say, if some of the treatments aren't 100 percent correct, it's not because I didn't try my best, but that I am limited by my own knowledge of the subject.

Thanks again for so many wonderful pieces of feedback. I am always so touched that people are enjoying this story. If you have put _The Cure_ on your favorites list, but haven't written any feedback yet, I'd love to hear from you just as I do from my "regulars".

I hope that you enjoy this next chapter. I've taken a bit of a different approach with it, so I hope it works.

Cheers!

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter 12: The Onramp of the Road to Hell**

* * *

**Cameron's Cancer Diary: Or **_**"Why I'd Rather Be at a Monster Truck Rally"**_

**Chemotherapy Cycle One: May 1**

James suggested that I keep a journal of my thoughts, feelings, and reactions on this journey down the road to Hell "they" call breast cancer – apparently it's supposed to be therapeutic.

When I was still working with House in Diagnostics, I had plenty of patients who used this mode of communication to get in touch with their feelings regarding their illness. I certainly never expected to be one of them, and I'm not at all too sure how good I will be. I'm not much of a pen and paper person anymore. Too many snarky comments about my "loopy Gs" drove me to my laptop more and more throughout my career – thanks House – so I guess I'll just type this thing out. If nothing else, it's faster.

If I suck at it, I suppose I can always stop.

Or not.

Maybe I'll give this journal to my parents when this is all over – one way or another. They'll be so pissed that I didn't tell them I was ill that I'll have to atone in some fashion. I guess it all depends on just what I put into this thing.

Anyway … on to the "Cancer" part of this journal. I will try to keep the 'medical jargon' to a minimum. If my father's going to read this, he wouldn't appreciate the need to keep a medical dictionary close at hand to understand it.

I'm lookin' out for you, Daddy.

I was diagnosed with Stage IIB Invasive Ductile Carcinoma a little over a month ago. The pathology report read in part: T3, N9, M0, meaning that the primary breast tumor was less than four centimeters in diameter, cancer was found in nine of the lymph nodes under my right arm, but that the disease – thankfully – has not metastasized to other parts of my body. My oncologist and personal friend, James Wilson, and I decided that the best course of treatment would involve a modified radical mastectomy – yes, Mom, that means I lost the whole breast, though by the time you see this, I hope to have undergone my reconstruction – along with chemotherapy. After the pathology came back, James added a five-week course of daily radiation to the mix as well.

Joy.

I can think of about ten-thousand things I would rather do this spring:

1. Relocate the dust bunny warrens from beneath my bed.

2. Scrub the grout in my bathroom with a toothbrush.

3. Lecture on Emergency Medicine over at Princeton.

4. Farm maggots in New Zealand.

5. Shear alpacas.

6. Test chain-mail suits.

7. Artificially inseminate ostriches.

Okay, yes, I'll admit to having watched too many episodes of _Dirty Jobs_ since my surgery.

8. Travel to Colorado. I hear the Rocky Mountains are lovely in May.

9. Rent a little cabin outside Vail.

10. Make love with House in that cabin outside Vail!

Hey! It's _my_ cancer journal. I'll type what I want into it. Dad will just have to deal.

Well, I'm not going to list all ten-thousand things, but you get the idea.

My mastectomy was about a month ago, and I am healing as well as can be expected – physically at least. The rest … well, it'll take time, and I don't _really_ want to get into that right now.

I'm typing this first entry in the middle of my first session (cycle) of chemotherapy. It's a six hour process – it's not normally this long, but there's some first cycle minutia to take care of – so I thought I'd come armed with some work to do. As you can see, I didn't get very far. Somehow, starting up on House's correspondence just didn't seem simulating enough. Not today.

My chemotherapy technician is Joe McDaniels.

It's amazing how much he reminds me of you, Sean – tall, strong, compassionate, intelligent, dreamy eyes. He probably gets all the girls just like you do. I have three girlfriends who would bodily throw themselves at Joe's feet and then wonder why in the hell I'm not doing the same. Not sure what to say, but that type never really interested me _because_ they remind me of you, Sean. Who wants to date their own brother?

Anyway, Joe is extremely good at what he does. He had me prepped for the procedure in short order. He first checked the x-rays to make sure my port-a-cath – a device surgically implanted underneath my skin which is used to deliver the chemo drugs through my subclavian vein and directly into the superior vena cava; it's more efficient than a regular IV in my arm – was positioned correctly by the radiologist. It was. He swabbed it with betadine and …

Gah! This is already starting to sound like the beginnings of a dissertation, not a journal.

I knew I would suck at this.

**

"My God! Those are the biggest hickies I've ever seen!" House nearly dropped the medical chart he held in his hands. Would clinic patients never cease to amaze?!

"They're _not_ hickies!"

"_Those_," House palpated each of the two, perfectly circular, large, red bruises on the boy's forehead, "are hickies."

"Damon is only eleven years old. He doesn't even _have_ a girlfriend," insisted Mrs. Soni, young Damon's mother. "I was thinking maybe the measles. There was an outbreak at his school over the winter."

"Measles?" House didn't even attempt to hide his derision. "If he's the Jolly Green Giant, maybe."

"They're not hickies!" Margaretta Soni turned to her son. "Are they?" Little Damon's eyes grew wide at anger in his mother's face. He didn't answer. "Who _is_ the little _slut_?" Mrs. Soni launched into a tirade in which she accused everyone from Susie Boselli next door to the school cafeteria lady – she was always suspicious of that extra scoop of applesauce Ms. Huxton was always giving Damon – of having marred her perfect little angel.

House let the old battle axe ramble and checked the time. Cameron was just about halfway through her treatment. She had insisted that she go alone. She didn't want to inconvenience him any more than she already had.

Like she was an inconvenience. Well, _technically_ she was, but House couldn't say that he really minded all that much.

House checked to see if Mrs. Soni was winding down … nope, only taking a breath. He should probably do something. The kid look terrified, and his mother's blood pressure was definitely climbing. If her face got any redder she might actually explode.

Last night House had said goodnight to Cameron at her bedroom door with nothing more than a chaste kiss on her forehead. Given the passion that they had shared just a short time before, along with the desire that he now accepted had been building in him for years, crawling into his own bed, alone, had been one of the hardest things he had ever done.

It had been necessary, however. Given the drastic changes in her body and in her sense of self-worth, she wasn't ready for the level of intimacy that would come with making love. No, he wasn't guessing at that. She had told him so, though not in so many words.

"I hate this," she said as she had pressed his hand to her chest.

"Nevertheless, I should win an award for my self-restraint."

"Why's that?"

"Duh! Sexy babe, skimpy nightshirt, in my arms," he had spelled out for her benefit as he caressed her hair. "I may generally live like a monk, but I think I still remember how the concept works." He kissed her neck, his tongue making a slow pilgrimage across her collarbone.

"You think I'm … sexy?" He felt Cameron tense in his arms and leaned back in the chair to look at her. She was clearly uncomfortable.

"Do you not remember why I hired you?"

"Lobby art, I know, but that was …"

"Was what?" he had asked. He had known the next part of her statement, but _she_ needed to say it.

"Before…"

"The _Venus de Milo_ is broken, but she's still sexy as hell," House had with direct simplicity. "If you don't believe my words, then perhaps you'll accept more 'concrete' evidence." He shifted and pressed her body firmly to his lap. She felt the hard proof of his arousal beneath her, and he was rewarded with a hesitant smile. He let his hand press gently into the marred flesh of her chest. "You are still a work of art, though infinitely more kissable." It had sounded somewhat trite to him when he had said it, but it seemed to settle her nerves. If the kiss Cameron gave him was his reward for trite, he might be able to live with it.

In the grand scheme of things, though, Cameron wasn't the only one who wasn't ready. There was a big difference between paid sex with a hooker and the emotional connection that came with making love – God, even the _mental_ version of that phrase was rusty as hell – to someone you … cared about.

House hadn't felt that kind of a connection in a long time, and his phrasing wasn't the only thing that needed to have the rust knocked off of it. He really didn't want to fuck this up with Cameron. Granted, he really didn't know just what 'this' was, and he was pretty sure she didn't have a clue either beyond the fact that she loved him. Nevertheless, slow and steady was the doctor was ordering for himself.

He just wasn't rea – Good lord, would that woman ever shut up!

"Give me that before you give me a concussion!" House commanded, grabbing the boy's backpack that the mother was flinging about in her hand every time she gesticulated. Unzipping the pack, he began rifling through its contents.

"What are you doing? Mrs. Soni demanded. "Why are you going through my son's things? I didn't give you permission to –"

"If you don't want my boss calling the kiddie cops, you'll shut the hell up now!" he roared then returned his attention to the inside of the pack. He pulled out half a dozen GI Joe action figures, an equal number of Transformers, a rubik cube – were those things back again, cool! – a slinky, two baseballs, a mitt, and a Nerf basketball and set them on the counter. "No homework, no books, no great shocker," he assessed the kid's spotted Cro-Magnonesque brow. "Clearly not a budding intellectual. Must take after your mother."

Mrs. Soni stiffened and looked about to protest, but House silenced her with a look then continued to dig. "What you clearly fail to understand is that a hickey is merely a bruise that is created by excessive suction. Suction that does not have to come from one person trying to 'suck-start' another. Ha!" he had found it! House pulled a portable basketball hoop from the backpack. At the base of the hoop were two large suction cups used to hold said hoop to any smooth surface.

They were a perfect fit.

"Seems junior here wanted to play the backboard."

"We were at the park," Damon explained nervously. "There wasn't any place to hang the hoop, and we wanted to play."

"But you were at the park _three_ hours," Mrs. Soni stammered.

"Based on the _excellent_ color your son got out of those _hickeys_, I'd say that's about right," House picked up the medical file and turned for the door. "Should fade in a week or two. In the meantime, he gets to play the Lothario of Princeton Heights Elementary. You should win the Oscar!"

"I didn't know," Mrs. Soni tried to explain. "I … I've never had a hickey."

"I'm _stunned_!" House scoffed and shut the door on the woman's outraged expression.

Chemotherapy treatment or no, he really needed to see Cameron. House quickly signed out at the clinic desk against the loud protests of the clinic nurse – she really should get her vocal cords checked. That degree of shrieking just couldn't be healthy – and headed for the Therapy Center at the other end of the hospital.

******

**Cameron's Cancer Journal**

**Chemotherapy Cycle One: May 1 – Part Two**

I'm going to have to force myself _not_ to deal with the medical. Focus on the physical and the personal, Allison. You can do that, can't you?

According to House, I think too much. I'm starting to think he's right.

The physical …

I'm very cold. This medicine Joe is infusing into my body is chilly, and I feel as though I am being frozen from the inside out. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was sitting in a blast freezer. Joe was kind enough to bring me one of those wonderful heated blankets that they use in the operating rooms. It has helped a lot, but I think I need another one. I just can't warm up.

I'm also very sleepy. I think I dozed a bit since I last shut this thing down. Before starting the actual chemo, Joe had to administer some anti-nausea drugs and some Benadryl into my system. Benadryl always makes me sleepy. He rattled off the various side effects of the anti-nausea medications. I won't get into them, but let's just say that I hope I don't get any.

I already understand the potential side effects from the Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Those aren't going to be pretty.

Have I said how much I think this sucks?

From the looks of things, I'm not the only one who's sleepy. There are two other women and one man in the center with me receiving their chemo treatments. Sadly, there are chairs in here for up to twelve more people.

They all seem nice enough. The two women are sitting next to one another and are chatting about their gardens. I get the impression that they know each other quite well. The man is on the other side of the room from me, closest to the window. He's about my age, athletic – or used to be. His left leg has been amputated just below the knee, and he's not wearing a prosthesis. His eyes are sunken in his face, his skin is sallow, and he's lost his hair. He looked up briefly when I originally came in, but since then he's been listening to his iPod with his eyes closed.

I'm not up for chatting with the other women. It is possible to feel like you don't fit in at a Chemotherapy Treatment Facility? I mean, at least we all have something in common. I guess I'm just not ready. It's all too new.

I'm sca –

No, no I'm not.

When I shut down the computer earlier, I found something unexpected in my bag – House's PSP. It was the new one he picked up a few weeks ago. He never really told me what happened to his other one; it wasn't that old, after all. He just muttered something about it shattering unexpectedly.

The sticky note on the screen read, "Just don't break it!" and was signed with a quickly scrawled "H".

Like anyone else would stow away their favorite toy in my bag. Truth be told, I was stunned that _he_ did. House isn't known for sharing. Especially not the things that matter, and his PSP is at the top of the list. At least I think it is. That may have changed since last night, but I won't presume to speak for him. That's up to him to decide.

_WWE Smackdown_ isn't really my thing, but _Indiana Jones and the Staff of the Kings_ was pretty fun. Of course, anything with Harrison Ford in it isn't bad. Such a hottie!

See, House. I've always had a thing for older, scruffy men with attitudes. You wouldn't happen to have a fedora and a bull whip hidden away at your place, would you?

Kinky, huh? Bet you never thought I had it in me.

Another two hours to go, and I'm still cold.

Joe said he'd bring by something for me to eat in a little bit; some juice too. The juice sounds good, especially if it's apple, but I'd rather have another one of those warm blankets.

I think I'll take another nap.

Maybe I won't feel cold in my dreams.

**

Cameron was sleeping in her chair – chemo drugs dripping away – when he entered the otherwise empty treatment room. House had passed a cancer-ridden amputee on his way in, and they greeted each other silently – cripple to cripple.

He sat down in the chair next to Cameron and watched her sleep for awhile before he had noticed that her computer was still running on the table. Propping his cane against his chair, he pulled it to his lap and clicked the mouse, activating the screen.

House didn't feel the least bit guilty in reading her journal.

He learned several things:

1. Cameron wasn't attracted to Joe.

_Good. Now I don't feel compelled to beat him with my cane. _

2. She thinks I'm right about her thinking too much.

_Well, of course I am. Duh!_

3. She's scared.

_She's not the only one. Damn. I didn't really think that did I? Yeah. And it's true._

4. She appreciated the PSP.

_Good. I'm not likely to do it again, so she might as well enjoy it while she can. It didn't seem broken, either._

5. Cameron is one twisted bunny.

_Harrison Ford, huh? Bullwhips? I don't think so. Riding crop, maybe._

6. She wants to make love to me.

_Thank God it's not just me! I mean, yeah baby!_

7. Cameron was cold.

He closed the laptop.

With an unexpected and atypical surge of emotion, House realized that if he could have held her in his arms to warm her body against his, he would have. He might have stood a chance of making it happen, too, if not for the leg. Instead he settled for taking Cameron's hand in his. It was, indeed, cold to the touch. He brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed them lightly before pressing the palm of her hand to his denim-clad thigh – his right thigh – and covered it with his own.

House would still be there next to her when Cameron awoke.

* * *

**Feedback? I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter. Thanks!**

I made a slight edit early this morning in regard to Cameron's brother's name. Sorry for the earlier confusion. That's what I get when I try to finish this up instead of going to bed like I should. Hehe.


	14. Chapter 13: Foot in Mouth Disease

All I can say is "Wow!" Some of the reviews I received on the last chapter were simply amazing. I am humbled and pleased that my story has had such an impact on many of your lives. When I set out to write this story, I had hoped to create a tale that was as impacting as it was entertaining – from your reviews, I seem to be on the right track.

Thank you!

It's going to be a busy weekend around here, and while I normally use that time to relax and unwind by writing, I don't know how much of an opportunity I will have to do that. I hope that this chapter is sufficient to help tide everyone over until I find my way back to the keyboard.

As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.

For your consideration, I present …

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Surgical Procedures for Foot in Mouth Disease**

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked.

"Tired. I didn't think it was possible to sleep all day, every day, and still be tired. I'd have killed for this much sleep in medical school."

Cameron sat slumped on the sofa that had been moved into House's office, Wilson next to her. She had come in for her blood test – the second one that week. Twice-weekly blood tests would be a part of her life until her chemotherapy concluded. A low blood cell count was characteristic during treatment, so she was monitored carefully. Earlier in the week she had started self-injections of Neupogen to get her bone marrow producing more white blood cells. Not only was she at a greater risk for getting an infection because her whites were low, but her perpetual exhaustion was the direct result of low reds, too – fewer red blood cells meant less oxygen and no energy. She was under strict orders from House – who apparently had Cuddy, Chase, the ducklings, the staff of the entire floor serving as spies in his absence – not to leave the relative protection of The Glass Castle until he was able to take her home.

"Based on your results," Wilson consulted her chart, "it looks like you've already reached the nadir – the low point – as far as white blood cell production goes. Seems the Neupogen is starting to work."

"I know what a nadir is, James," Cameron snapped, then immediately regretted her outburst. She sighed with frustration and dropped her head to the cushions behind her. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Mood changes can be part of what you're going through, and I sometimes forget that you're not my typical patient with absolutely no understanding of medical terminology." He took her hand in his and examined the elasticity of her skin. Standing up, he handed her the water bottle she had left on House's desk. His expectation was clear – Drink!

"So we're going to go straight to the Taxol for Cycle Two next week?" she asked. Cameron took a sip of the water, grimaced with disgust, yet swallowed.

"I think it's a wise move," Wilson said, looking down at her. Cameron was still pale though the dark circles under her eyes had faded since her appointment earlier in the week. "Unless you'd rather stay on the A/C?"

"No!" she insisted. "I can't go through that again."

Cameron's body had been unable to completely metabolize the Adriamycin and Cytoxan, so her reaction to the chemotherapy had been unexpectedly extreme. Four days of violent nausea had left her unable to keep anything in her stomach – not even the anti-nausea meds – and she had become dehydrated enough for House to rush her to the PPTH Emergency Room where Thirteen, on duty in Cameron's stead, had given her intravenous fluids and medications through the port in her chest. Even though the nausea had subsided and her dehydration was resolved, she found it extremely difficult to find things she could stomach the taste of to eat. The chemotherapy had left her with such a dreadful metallic taste in her mouth that even drinking water was a challenge. She had been subsisting mostly on bananas, cherry Italian ices, and Italian Wedding soup. Cameron had lost nearly nine pounds in as many days. Her jeans hung loosely on her hips, and the red button-down shirt she wore all but dwarfed her already petite frame . Her blonde hair was loose about her shoulders, though it too lacked the shine that was normally a part of Cameron's whole personality. Wilson had recommended some dietary changes and supplements to help ensure she got the nutrients her body so desperately needed right now.

"Then Taxol it is," Wilson confirmed, though it meant an entirely new protocol for her treatment. 'Sandwich Therapy' was out of the picture now that the Taxol was in – the chances of 'radiation recall' were too great for her to continue a second course of chemo on Taxol after having had radiation. Cameron would now complete ten bi-weekly Taxol therapies followed by six weeks of daily radiation.

"Sign me up," Cameron's smile was tired but sincere.

"So … how's it going with House?" Wilson asked entirely too casually.

"House is House," Cameron answered with a non-committal shrug. "Which means he is frequently rude and insensitive, tells me one thing then does another, and complains loudly about how much extra work an invalid is."

"Nice to know he hasn't stopped being an ass."

"It's the one constant in my universe," there was only a touch of sarcasm in her voice. "House wouldn't be House if he wasn't behaving like an ass. It's … reassuring. Comforting. Normal, if that makes any sense?"

"Look, I know that you love him, but are you sure about all of this? I'd be happy to help you – "

"Let me put it to you this way, James. In spite of the half-dozen times he's managed to piss me off since the chemo, I never would have made it through last week without him. For all the complaining he does, there wasn't a single time that House wasn't there for me when I needed him – most times _before_ I needed him. He may hate all the jumble and chaos that goes hand in hand with a serious illness, but I'm more convinced than ever that, as far as practicing medicine is concerned, he's the most intuitive man I've ever known. I have a feeling that I'm going to need that before all of this is over."

While the first night after her treatment had gone well enough – only mild fatigue and a bit of a headache – the nausea had started in earnest Saturday night, and by the time Monday rolled around, Cameron had discovered an entirely new level of misery.

There had been nothing remotely tidy or attractive about the last week, yet amidst all the nausea, vomit, muscle pains, diarrhea, medications, ER visits, and tears, House had steadfastly tended and cleaned up after her with little in the way of grumbling. Well … not really. There had been plenty of grumbling, complaining, bitching and moaning, and _swearing_, but all of it directed elsewhere – the cancer, the chemo, the technicians, Wilson – never at her.

House had lost his temper with her only once – when Cameron had obstinately refused to drink anymore water, juice, or Gatorade; she just couldn't handle throwing up again.

"You're a moron!" He sat on the edge of her bed and had slammed the bottle of Gatorade on the table next to her. Water had sloshed over the edges of the numerous, and mostly untouched, glasses he had brought her over the last few hours. Pill bottles tipped and dropped to the floor.

"I'm not a moron," her voice had been raspy from vomiting. It had felt as though the caustic acid from her stomach had all but dissolved her vocal cords. "I just don't see the point."

"The point is that if you don't keep trying to get fluids down, even a little bit, you'll start to dehydrate. You're a doctor, you know this, you choose to do nothing to change it, hence you're a moron."

Cameron knew he was right, but she wanted to be right, too. Nevertheless, she was too tired to fight him. Even the little bit of complaint she had put up had exhausted her. "I'll try again in a little bit," she conceded, collapsing back against her pillows.

Always preferring instant gratification over having to wait for what he wanted, House had thought about continuing to push her to acquiesce, but even he wasn't nasty enough to continue to kick at someone who was so clearly down , even if he did care about her. "You've got ten minutes. After that, I open your mouth and pour this down your gullet, myself." He shook the Gatorade bottle threateningly.

House never got the opportunity. Five minutes later Cameron emptied her stomach again, this time blood had come up with the bile. House checked her pulse – it had increased significantly as had her respirations – and Cameron admitted that her fingers were starting to tingle. Two minutes later, House had managed to bundle her into the car and drove her to the Emergency Room for treatment of moderate dehydration.

"We're doing okay for now, James," Cameron insisted. "Really."

Wilson nodded his understanding though she knew full well he wasn't convinced. "He's taking you home right?"

"Of course, but he's currently hounding Kutner about the results on Mr. Hansen's EMG and CSF evaluation."

House's new patient had originally presented with flu-like symptoms and severe back pain, all very boring indicators, but when Hansen had lost sensation in his hands and feet, House became interested. All manner of syndromes and disorders had been suggested, tossed out, tested, and re-evaluated during the numerous differentials House had conducted with his team, but when Hansen stopped breathing on his own, Cameron – in her new yet old role of administrative consultant – suggested Guillain-Barre Syndrome. They were now waiting to see if she was right.

"Could you hand me my computer bag," she asked him. "I might as well sort out his email while I wait."

Wilson passed her the bag. She curled her legs up underneath her body and pulled the computer from the sack. "You let me know if he forgets about you, and I'll take you home myself," he insisted.

"House isn't going to forget about me." Cameron's smile was both patient and annoyed. "Your lack of faith in your best friend is staggering."

"Allison, I just don't want to see you hurt." Or House, he thought.

On most days Cameron felt that attempting to truly understand Gregory House was an exercise in futility. Just when she thought she had sorted out one particular facet of his personality, three new aspects appeared, each more complicated than the one that preceded them.

The House that Wilson called friend confused the hell out of her whereas the House she loved was one that Wilson could never begin to comprehend. It was as if they each held in their hearts a mere copy of the original House portrait, but each one was unique, displaying subtle differences that the other copy did not possess, and neither she nor Wilson would ever have a complete or unfettered view of the whole picture.

Given Wilson's exclusive understanding of his friend, how did she explain to him that hurting someone was a likely and unavoidable part of any human interaction? That she was able to accept and appreciate the fact that House was an ass? That she knew somewhere within him still existed that deep capacity for love that she had sensed so many years ago? That she felt House was worth the risk involved in opening her heart to him? Granted, House sometimes went out of his way to hurt those he was close to, but Cameron truly believed that was a natural defense mechanism rather than a deliberate need to cause someone pain. House wasn't a sadistic or cruel man, just … damaged.

So was she.

She couldn't explain it, so she didn't even try. She just said, "I'll be fine, James."

He heard the finality in her voice and decided to leave well enough alone. "Let me know if anything new pops up. If you leave this office, make sure you wear a mask," Wilson gestured at the box of surgical masks House had left on the bookshelf next to the door. Normally such precautions weren't needed, but given that Cameron worked in a hospital, there was no need to openly court contagion. "Need you to be healthy for next Friday's treatment."

"Yes, doctor." She sounded strangely like House at his mocking-best. Wilson shook his head in resignation and left the office.

Cameron turned on her computer, but rather than open House's email account she accessed the file containing her journal.

**

**Cameron's Cancer Journal**

**Chemotherapy Cycle One: May 13**

I actually managed to eat some real food today. Out of nowhere I was struck with a sudden desire for grilled salmon. Now, I've never been much of a salmon fan, generally I can take it or leave it, but today I _had_ to have it. Thankfully, Lisa – I call her Lisa all the time now – offered to bring me some back from the business luncheon she was having with the new prospective head of Gastroenterology. I practically ripped the take-out box from her hand so desperate was I to eat it. In the end, I only managed to eat about a third of the filet along with the rice pilaf and green beans it came with, but it tasted heavenly. I think it may be all about the salmon for awhile.

Good news on the blood cell count. Things are improving. I seem to be on the upswing. While I am still tired, it's not _nearly_ as bad as it was on Monday when all I wanted to do was curl up under a warm blanket and wait until all of this was over.

That's good news because I have an appointment in two days to get my hair cut. My friend Celie from Radiology is going with me to a special salon, Natural Woman, which caters to cancer patients. They will help me decide on a new, shorter hairstyle that will hopefully ease the transition for me when – I really don't think this is going to be a situation of "if" – I lose my hair. They also have a boutique of head scarves, hats, and turbans that she thinks I will love.

I'm not having a wig made. I know, Mom, I know … 'a woman's hair is her crowning glory', and I have long held true to that tenet, but unless it's _mine_, still attached to my head in the _natural_ way, I don't want to mess with it. I wonder what everyone will think if I wander around PPTH in a _The Who_ skull cap.

I can think of one who would probably _love_ it.

Isn't that right, House?

The other day he asked me why I continue to call him 'House'. He thought it odd that a woman who "declared her undying love for me" would continue to call him by his last name. Despite the fact that I don't remember declaring "undying" love – love nonetheless – I didn't really have a good reason other than that I have always thought of him as "House". It's more than just his name. It's a whole package, a way of being, something that only _he_ is.

"Say it," he asked me that night as we cleaned up the kitchen after dinner. Yes, Wilson, he can be accommodating that way, and I didn't even have to bribe him … much.

"Say what?"

"Say my name." I was surprised by the intensity in his eyes. It's _that_ look that always makes me melt. It's that look that will _always_ make me say 'Yes' to him. Not giving anything away with that revelation. He's always known that.

I remember swallowing hard. I remember the nervous flutters that started in my stomach, and knowing full well that it wasn't nausea. It was him. He had taken my arm by the elbow and pulled me close, the closest we had been together since the night I told him I loved him. Chemotherapy and nausea don't allow for much time or opportunity for wooing. Soap suds dripped from my hands onto his, and splashed on the floor at our feet, but I don't think I noticed that until later. House is rather a large man to ignore completely, especially when he's looming over me with _that_ look in his eyes. My back was pressed into the counter as he stared down at me. He was so damn sexy and powerful I would have given him anything at that moment. A name was not too much to ask.

"Greg." My voice was a mere whisper over what it had been just a few moments before.

He looked at me a moment more. Then his lips twitched at the corners and he started laughing – a deep, full-bellied laugh that I have only heard from him once or twice in the nearly six years I have known him. My goodness, he's gorgeous when he laughs like that.

It wasn't long before I was laughing right along with him. We then knew why I don't call him by his first name. It was just … so _not_ right.

"'House' will work," he said, patting my arm and turning back to the sink.

A pat on the arm?! A kitchen _full_ of sexual tension and all I get is a pat on the arm? A t-shirt would have been preferable. Oh hell no, I thought!

"What about 'Gregory'?" I asked him in the sultriest voice I could summon. Kathleen Turner was probably eating her heart out at the moment.

House raised his eyebrow in curiosity. I had his attention. He was 'interested', and with House, it's all about attracting his interest. I said it again.

"Gregory."

It was a full five minutes before that kiss ended. I could go on and on about his lips and how they moved across mine, teasing me, torturing me, but I'll save that for my personal memoirs, not this journal. Some things a girl's daddy just doesn't need to know.

Suffice it to say, 'Gregory' works just fine.

"But only for special occasions," House insisted. He muttered something under his breath about wanting to be able to leave the apartment every once in awhile. I didn't really catch all of what he said, though. For once House's diction hadn't been too clear.

Sorry if this sounds a bit too much like a poorly written romance novel, but I only promised to be gentle with the medical terminology. Everything else is fair game. I find that I rather like a bit of 'purple prose' now and again. It makes telling a story _so_ much more interesting, don't you think?

Anyway, a few more things on the big "C". I have a music therapy class scheduled for next week. I'm not quite sure what it entails, but given how much I love music – I honestly think that listening to House play the piano is about all the 'therapy' I need, but I can't rely on him for everything – it can't be all bad. If nothing else, I'll probably learn something new.

Whoops, the Devil himself is limping this way. Looks like it's time to go home. See you for the next entry.

**

Cameron set the laptop on the sofa next to her as House entered the office.

"It's GBS. We're starting treatment on Hansen," he confirmed. "Good call."

"Thanks, it's good to know that I've still 'got it'," she said with a smile.

"Depends on what you think you lost?" He limped past her to his desk. "If we're talking diagnostic skills, then you've still got 'em. Talking body parts, well then, that's long gone."

Oh _fuck_! He gripped the edge of his desk. You did _not_ just say that to her.

Cameron's gasp of dismay behind him was all the proof he needed.

Yes, you did.

Asshole!

House turned around, slowly, to face her. It was another moment before he had the guts to look her in the face. A face that was flushed with anger, but absent of tears.

"Cameron. I … I'm …" the words were there, but he couldn't force them from his throat.

"I know what you are, _House_." His name on her lips was harsh and full of rage. Cameron got up from the sofa and stood toe to toe with him. Her eyes … well, he had never seen quite that look in her eyes before, and he hoped that he never would again. "You're an asshole, you're a bastard, and you're the biggest son-of-a-bitch that I have ever known."

"Camer –"

"If you hope to ever have another moment in my life, don't say a _damn_ thing! For once, just _fucking_ listen!" She poked him hard in the chest.

Oh hell. She's swearing, he thought. _Not_ good.

Cameron took a few calming breaths before she continued. She needed to let reason take control over her emotions, or she could easily kill him right now. "But for all that you're a bastard, I also know that you're sorry for what you just said to me. I can only hope that someday you'll figure out _how_ to let that word pass your lips. A day will come when you will _have_ to say it, House, or risk losing me forever."

With a final glare, Cameron walked away from him. Grabbing a mask from the box on the shelf next to the door, she slipped the elastic bands around her ears and settled the protective material over her nose and mouth. "I'm going to the restroom. When I get back, I'll have settled on half a dozen reasons why I _shouldn't_ kill you in your sleep tonight, and we'll go back to the apartment. But you'd better think of a _damn_ good way to apologize to me for being the biggest asshole it's ever been my unfortunate experience to meet."

If a door on a hydraulic hinge could have been slammed, the door to his office would have shattered into thousands of pieces when Cameron left.

House stood silently with his head bowed for several moments after she disappeared down the hallway. Penitent was not an adjective he had had much reason to use in his life, but he was truly contrite over what he had said. As he considered what, if anything, he could say to Cameron upon her return, a glint of gold contrasting against the black leather of the sofa caught his attention. He limped over to inspect his find. Tugging it from where it was trapped in the deep seam between the two cushions on the back of the sofa, he coiled it in his hand and caressed the silkiness with his thumb.

House lifted his eyes in the direction which Cameron had walked. "I'm sorry," he said simply, sincerely.

His long fingers tightened on the several dozen long strands of golden hair that he held in his hand.

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**I do so love feedback. I hope that you find something positive, reflective, or helpful that you would like to say about this chapter. Please, Please! Thank you!**

**~ Sarah**


	15. Chapter 14: Atonement Sonata in E Flat

Again, I am so amazed by the reviews you are giving me for this piece of fiction. I know I say this a lot, but it is truly pleasing and appreciated. I am touched that so many of you have found personal inspiration in Cameron and House's experience. In addition to trying to portray their trials in a realistic way, I have struggled to keep their 'voices' and personalities true to the actual characters. This is much easier said than done, so I appreciate the fact that so many of you seem to think I am being successful.

This story has taken on a life of its own for me, so I guarantee that it will be one with a "complete" tag at the end of it. I can't _not_ finish it. Please pardon the double-negative in that sentence, but sometimes they are necessary.

I hope that you enjoy the following chapter. More will follow later this week, but most of my evenings are filled with 'end of the school year' activities, so it may be the weekend before chapter fifteen makes an appearance.

So, in the style of a Chopin composition, I present …

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Atonement Sonata No. 1 in E Flat **

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While House didn't possess the obsessive need for extreme cleanliness that was apparent in every square inch of Cameron's home– except in _his_ bedroom, of course – he did try to keep the clutter in his apartment at a level which could be best described as orderly chaos. Tonight, however, it looked as though his apartment had been tipped on end and every last item shaken from its natural place of rest. A path of destruction led from bedroom to living room through which the contents of his closets were strewn across every available surface. Jackets were scattered across the wooden floor. His lacrosse stick had been tossed across the room and landed at the foot of the piano. Ball caps now resided on lamps and on bookshelves. Several pairs of running shoes had been flung in the general vicinity of the kitchen.

On the floor, in the center of the devastation, sat one Gregory House.

Where in the fuck is it?! I wouldn't have thrown it away, so where did I put it?

He had torn through every closet, shelf, chest, nook, cranny, and storage bin he had, and still he couldn't find that box.

What is it with you and boxes anyway? Never can find the damn things when you need them. House doubted that the maid Wilson had pawned off on him all those years ago would have moved it. She had learned that lesson her first day. Since then, if it was a box or a chest in _his_ apartment, she didn't touch it.

"You'd better think of a damn good way to apologize for being the biggest asshole it's ever been my unfortunate experience to meet," Cameron had raged at him, and rightfully so. Of course everyone knew – even Cameron – that snarky, biting comebacks were to be expected from him, but even _he_ couldn't figure out why he had said it. He hadn't been overly grumpy. The tests he had ordered on the patient had come back proving that Cameron had been correct in her diagnosis. If anything he had felt a bit proud that his errant, wandering duckling had done so well. No. There had been no reason for what he had said, yet he had, and it had hurt her.

The fact that he even felt compelled to atone for this transgression was not lost on House. He didn't want to hurt Cameron. Not anymore. He had done enough of that in the past.

Cameron hadn't said anything to him on the way out of the hospital or on the ride home for that matter. Granted, she hadn't seethed with anger as she had when she left his office, which would have been a good thing if she hadn't replaced it with something else – a deep, pervasive sadness. House would rather Cameron rail and rage at him as she had before, but she had said nothing. She wasn't pulling that passive aggressive 'silent treatment' crap either. If she had been, House would have set it aside with the knowledge that she would eventually get over it and move on. However, the melancholy which had settled over her was agonizing to be near. Cameron would not meet his eyes either, though he had seen the wounded look in them when she returned from the restroom. _He_ had put that look there.

It was a rare thing House had felt in that moment of realization, but contrary to what Wilson believed, it was an emotion he was capable of evoking.

He was ashamed of himself.

House had dropped Cameron off at the apartment and told her that he was going to go get them dinner. He had driven to his apartment instead. Not to seek refuge as he had once thought he would need to do, but to seek out something for her. In fact, looking around at the disorder that ruled the place, House was surprised at how strange it all seemed to him now. This was his apartment, these were his things scattered about. He knew where the silverware was kept, how to keep the knob from falling off the third drawer in the bathroom, where the emergency bottle of scotch was hidden, and what sheet music was stored inside the piano bench. For all that, however, this … space no longer felt like home. It was just a place to keep most of his things – Princeton, New Jersey's most expensive storage unit.

Somewhere amidst all the chaos of the last two months, home had become wherever Cameron was – his office, the conference room, the car, her apartment. He should feel panicked right now, shouldn't he? He should want to run from the emotional entanglements that being involved – whatever that _really_ meant – with Allison Cameron would create, right?

Apparently not.

House was taken aback at the realization, but also at the unexpected compulsion that was building within him because of it.

He wanted to go home – to her.

The need to find that box was quickly becoming critical. Groaning in frustration and pain, House rolled over onto his back and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Stupid of him to sit on the floor like that, his leg was killing him. Blindly, House groped around in his pocket for his Vicodin, but as he popped the top off of the bottle, several pills spilled out and scattered on the floor around his head. The click-click-click of chalky white pills echoed in his ears as they bounced across the smooth wood.

Just peachy!

Rolling first to one side and then the other, House gathered up the pills in his hand. Blowing a dust bunny off of one – that maid really needs to check _under_ the furniture – he swallowed two of the pills dry. House was about to push to his hands and knees to get up – an awkward proposition to be sure – when he spotted one of the white oval tablets hiding behind the leg of the couch. Pressing closer to the floor to grab it, he was surprised to see that his little Vicodin pill had found a friend.

Well, I'll be damned.

Palming the pill, House's fingertips wrapped around the edges of his prize, and he slid it into the light of the living room. Leaning against the back of his couch and grimacing as he folded his legs into a pseudo-Indian style position, House lightly fingered the aged contours of the large cardboard box on the floor in front of him.

He remembered now why he had left it underneath the couch instead of stowing it away in one of the closets. Wilson had come knocking shortly after House had received this package in the mail from his mother a few weeks after his fath – John had died. House had shoved it under the couch rather than deal with the questions his friend would have inevitably asked – Spanish Inquisitors had nothing on James Wilson, Oncologist.

House's hand hovered a moment over the cardboard cover before he removed the lid from the box and carefully pulled back the white cotton sheeting that protected what lay inside. It was as he remembered it – rich, soothing, familiar. A rare smile pulled at the corners of his lips as House remembered the history associated with the item. At the time he received it, House couldn't imagine what had possessed his mother to send it to him. He had been tempted to send it back; his mother certainly knew he would never need it, but he was glad that he had forgotten about it until today. He would never use this, but perhaps Cameron would.

He hoped she would.

House tucked the sheet into place and fitted the lid back onto the box. Gripping the back of the couch, he pulled himself upright and grabbed his cane which he had left propped up against the side of the piano. Stretching his leg carefully, he tucked the large package under his arm, and without a second thought left the apartment and its devastation behind him.

What else was he paying that maid for anyway?

**

Cameron was fixing a fruit salad when House returned to the apartment.

"What are you doing?" he asked, setting the various packages of food he was carrying onto the table. "I said that I would bring dinner."

"You left three hours ago. I was getting hungry." Cameron shrugged and continued to slice up the banana.

She was at least speaking to him; that might have boded well, but her voice was still sad and even a bit resigned as if she had given up – on what he didn't know and was a little afraid to find out. Cameron also hadn't bothered to turn around to talk to him, but kept her eyes focused on the fruit she was chopping and tossing into the bowl next to the cutting board.

House set the box on the low table in front of her sofa and beckoned her to him. She eyed him with suspicion as if he were the snake of yore summoning her to stand before the Tree of Knowledge.

"Come here … please," he added patiently when he saw her reluctance. "Just put the damn knife down, though. For the time being, I'd rather you not be armed while in close proximity to me."

Her eyes narrowed even further, but she did as he had asked. House noticed that when she set down the knife she did so on the small side table next to the arm of the sofa – still within easy reaching distance from where she sat on the leather cushions. He smiled. Good. Seemed some of Cameron's pluck and determination had returned.

Now that he had her attention, however, House really didn't know how to proceed. He had never been good at gift-giving, not when it really mattered. In fact, most gifts he gave others usually benefited him directly such as the Monster Truck Rally tickets he had given to Wilson which had ultimately led to his non-date date with Cameron. He wasn't a man who gave selflessly. He had always known that. Off hand, he couldn't think of a single present he had given Stacy during their years together. In spite of all that, however, House couldn't think of any gift he had _ever_ given that might matter more than the one currently sitting on the table.

Now that he was faced with the pending outcome of his impulsive search through the vast realms of his personal possessions, House felt a measure of panic. What if he had been wrong? What if she didn't like it? What if she didn't want it? What if she didn't want him?

"House?" Cameron asked again – he hadn't heard her the first time – drawing his attention back to the task at hand. "I assume there's a reason you have me sitting here staring at an ancient box made of cardboard?"

"It was my grandmother's," he said sitting in the chair at the end of the coffee table. "What's inside that is, not the box. I have no use for it, so I thought you might … want it."

Suspicion turned to curiosity and Cameron pulled the package closer. Her fingers caressed the worn corners of the box; she noted that the thick cardboard had probably once been white but had yellowed with age. As he had done just a short while ago, Cameron's hands hovered over the top a moment before she pulled it free and set it on the floor next to her. She peeled back the protective sheet.

House had dropped his forehead to the top of his cane as she inspected the box, but he popped upright at her gasp of surprise and delight.

"It's exquisite," she whispered. Her fingertips skimmed the soft fabric, tracing the intricate, hand-sewn designs which were stitched into the material.

"It's a blanket," he shrugged nonchalantly as if the item did not hold the personal significance to him that it really did.

"It's a quilt, not just a blanket," she corrected. Her eyes had lost the injured sadness that had filled them all afternoon. His heart beat more quickly at the warmth those green pools now conveyed. "Your grandmother made this?" Cameron pulled the quilt from the box and began to unfold it, spreading its length over her body. It wasn't overly large, maybe just big enough to cover a full-sized bed.

"Her mother made it. My grandmother brought it when she emigrated from Wales."

Cameron was entranced. It was made from finely woven cotton in a lovely shade of steel blue. Unlike most of the quilts she saw for sale in catalogues, this blanket had not been constructed of various blocks or patterns of colored fabric appliquéd on the quilt top. It was instead made of thick batting sandwiched between two large pieces of material which had been heavily quilted with a motif of different flowers and herbs. It must have been close to eighty or ninety years old but had been well cared for.

"House, this is an heirloom. I can't accept it."

"I don't use it. Hell, I didn't even ask for it. My mother just sent it one day. What am I going to do with a blanket like that?"

"House," Cameron protested again.

"You get cold during chemo." There was finality in his voice that Cameron recognized. There would be no arguing with him.

"Thank you, House." Her smile warmed him in a way that his frost-bit heart was unprepared for. House could see that she had forgiven him for his earlier wrongdoing, and while he had hoped that the quilt would help to bridge the gap he had created between them that day, he hadn't anticipated that it might actually close it altogether.

"I'm an ass," he said by way of explanation.

Cameron hesitated, but she nodded her firm agreement of his personal assessment. "Yes … you are."

"I'll probably always be an ass."

"I've accepted that probability."

"I hurt you."

Cameron's eyes dropped to the quilt in her lap, and she toyed with the edge of the fabric. "Yes, you did."

"I didn't mean to."

"If I thought it was intentional, your things would have been in boxes outside the front door, blackmail demands be damned." A bit of her old anger flared again.

Abandoning his cane House limped to the fireplace and faced the mantle. He wanted to go to her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "I'll hurt you again. I can't promise you that I won't. It's what I do. I hurt those that I … "

"You hurt those that you care about because it's easier to push us away than deal with the pain when we inevitably hurt you. I get that, House, but it's also the easy way out. You always take the easy way out, and sometimes I understand that, but what I can never understand is why you would continue to choose that path time and again when the other way can be so much more rewarding in spite of the hardships." She paused as if something had just occurred to her. "Do you think it's easy for me to love you?"

House snorted with derision. It was clear what he believed the answer to that question to be.

Cameron shook her head. "House, falling in love with you was the easiest thing I've ever done. Fighting you until you realize that I'm serious when I say I love you and waiting until you accept that maybe, just _maybe_, you might feel the same way about me is what's been hard."

"I'm not worth that kind of energy. Hell, even I exhaust me."

"Would you stop telling me what to do and just let me _love_ you!" she shouted, pounding her fists into the cushioned leather at her sides.

His blue eyes widened at the ferocity in her tone, but he did not turn from the fireplace. "Nothing I can do will stop you, will it?" he realized.

"No." She shook her head. Setting the quilt aside she walked around the coffee table and stood beside him, close, but not actually touching him. "But you could make it a little easier on me – on both of us – and not fight me _every_ step of the way. I can't fight both you _and_ the cancer, House. Either one on its own is exhausting enough. I sometimes think The Battle of Normandy was easier to fight. I'd much rather have you on my side than fighting against me, and I honestly don't think I can beat the cancer without you."

She fell silent, and they stood next to one another for several long moments while House processed what she had said. Eventually he hooked his fingers around hers and pulled her hand into his. Grasping it tightly, he brought it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. He felt her pulse quicken under his lips and smiled.

"I'm a bastard."

Were they starting this again? "House …"

"No. Hear me out. I'm a bastard, and by a bastard's very nature he makes things difficult for others. It's in our by-laws, I think, but I don't think I'd be risking my lifetime membership if I only _occasionally_ made things difficult for you."

"How occasionally?" Cameron was suspicious again.

"Once or twice a day?" he bargained.

"A day?!"

"Hey, it's usually once or twice a conversation, so comparatively speaking you're getting' a helluva deal here."

Cameron laughed then nodded. She couldn't fault the logic of his proposition. "I think I can live with that." Smiling, she touched his stubbly cheek, letting its roughness rub against the sensitive skin of her fingertips. Impulsively, House turned his face into her palm and kissed it quickly.

"I think I can live with that, too."

He bent down to press a kiss to her lips. It was gentle and tender and passionate all at once.

"I love you," Cameron whispered against his mouth when they broke apart.

"I know," House said and kissed her again.

**

They ate their dinner in companionable silence side by side on the sofa while watching _Kung Fu Panda_. House couldn't say that he was a huge fan of animated features, but he found Jack Black hilarious, so the movie wasn't too painful to watch.

Cameron ate only half of the pasta carbonara he had brought her from La Bella Luna. While she had frequented the local restaurant on occasion and had become friendly with the owners, 'Fredo and Gabriella Costa, the eatery had quickly earned a permanent speed dial position on House's cell phone. For ten days following Cameron's first chemotherapy treatment, the Costas' Italian ices and Wedding Soup had been the only things she had been able to stomach. The soup was typically served only on Wednesdays, but Gabriella had long viewed Cameron as the daughter she'd never been blessed with, and had readily agreed to prepare it daily on the weeks 'Bella Allison' received her treatments. Every Italian ice they ordered was 'on the house', and on more than one occasion 'Fredo had happily delivered them to Cameron's apartment when House was stuck at the hospital, unable to get them for her himself.

Though it was still early, it had been a long and emotional day for both of them, so House wasn't at all surprised when Cameron bid him goodnight with a soft kiss. A short while later the traditional rumble of the pipes indicated that she had started her evening shower. Interestingly enough, her go-to-bed routine was in some ways more familiar to him than his own. Though she showered twice daily, her morning foray under the spray was cursory, just enough to 'blow the stink off' as his fath – John would have said. The one she took before bed, however, was therapeutic. It was the way in which she decompressed at the end of the day. She lingered under the hot water and steam allowing them to cleanse more than just her body.

More than one night had found House struggling not to envision the water and soapy bubbles sluicing off of Cameron's naked body, her toned arms, her sexy legs, her shapely bottom. Such images were not conducive to a night spent alone in his bed, knowing she was only steps away on the other side of their shared wall, but at the same time still miles away in terms of full attainability. Strange that in living with the woman he was rapidly coming to lov – care for, House was living more as a monk than he ever had living alone. Stranger still was that in the grand scheme of things, he was perfectly okay with it.

He was surfing the channels waiting for _South Park_ to come on when Cameron's anguished scream echoed through the relative quiet of the apartment.

"House!"

In retrospect he wasn't sure exactly how he managed to get to the bathroom as quickly as he did without his cane, but he was through the door into the steam-filled room before she could cry out again. Her face was deathly pale, and with one hand she clutched the towel that was wrapped around her dripping body. House didn't need to ask what had caused her to scream for in her other hand Cameron clutched a thick, dripping mass of her own hair.

Fuck! In the emotional confusion of the day, he had completely forgotten about the lock of gold he had found trapped between the cushions of the couch in his office. He could have spared her this shock.

Leaning heavily against the wall, House grabbed hold of her hand with his. The hair was sodden and stuck even to his skin. "Give it to me, Cameron," he whispered. She continued to stare at the mass in her hand as if it was alive, some creature bent on destroying her.

He cupped her damp chin with his other hand. "Give it to me," he repeated firmly yet with compassion. He saw the tears that she struggled not to let fall. "It is what it is. We knew that this would come sooner or later. Unfortunately, it happened sooner than you were prepared for, but it is what it is."

Cameron swallowed tightly and nodded. She eased her grip and felt House pull the strands from her fingers. Making sure not a single one clung to her hand, he threw the wet tangle into the trash can next to the sink and pulled the sides of the liner together, knotting it tightly.

Turning back to her, he saw that her hand had strayed to the length of wet hair that fell across her right shoulder. Shock and fear caused her lips to tremble. "Cameron!" Grabbing her face between his hands, House tipped it so that her eyes were forced to meet his.

"Understand this because I am only going to say it once," his voice was harsh with emotion. "What you looked like three months ago, what you look like tonight, what you'll look like tomorrow or a year from now doesn't change the fact that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known."

House backed away from her, surprised by his own words, and sat down heavily on the edge of the tub. That hadn't been what he intended to say – not that he could remember what he _had_ intended to say – it all just sort of came out. For a man who measured every word he said for maximum effect, these spontaneous ones packed one hell of a wallop.

Cameron looked down at him. Her thoughts were a jumble of emotions. She didn't know how he did it. Earlier, House had managed to say exactly the wrong thing and had brought her unimaginable pain and despair. Yet less than twelve hours later he had brought her unparalleled comfort and joy by using precisely the words she needed to hear. More importantly, she had seen the truth of it in his eyes. She was scarred outside and in, her hair was falling out in clumps, she suffered from occasional hand tremors, and she had a medical port surgically implanted in her chest, but at this moment, none of that mattered. Whether or not the rest of the world shared his sentiment wasn't an issue. The one man who had always mattered to her had just said that she was beautiful, and she believed him.

Cameron stepped close and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Take off your shirt," she whispered.

House looked up at her, confusion clear in his face.

"Stand up and give me your shirt."

He did as she requested, and she slipped her arms inside the soft material. His scent on the fabric intoxicated her; his warmth which lingered in the folds of the fabric soothed the chill that had settled into her bones. Securing only the buttons above her chest, Cameron let the towel that had been covering her body drop to the floor.

Cameron looked up at him. House towered over her as he always did, but puzzlement still marred his features. Reaching a hand to his face, she tried to soothe the lines at the corners of his eyes. His wonderfully expressive eyes which now looked down on her with sadness, empathy, and consternation. She stepped closer still. Taking his hand in hers, she tucked it behind her back, forcing him to draw her body to his.

"Make love to me."

So _not_ what he was expecting her to say at the moment, but the night was clearly full of surprises. Several thoughts came to his mind. Yes! Are you sure? Are you nuts? Really? Sweet! Oh, man! What if I screw this up, too? God, I want you!

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her fingertips to his mouth and shook her head. She had seen the doubt in his eyes.

"I, too, will say this only once … again. Make love to me, Gregory." Curling her arm around the back of his neck, she brought his mouth to hers, but she didn't kiss him. Her lips rested mere centimeters beneath his, but she drew him no closer. He had to make the decision.

"Choose," Cameron whispered, her breath mingling with his.

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_Feedback? The plot bunnies are looking a little bit skinny and could do with some fattening up. I hope you enjoyed this mean little cliffhanger. Do tell me what you think. As always, my thanks._

_~ Sarah_


	16. Chapter 15: Suite for House and Cameron

Well, so much for waiting for the weekend. Seems that a good sex scene waits for no author no matter what her prior commitments may be.

Please note that the rating on this story has officially changed to "M" due to the content of the following chapter.

As usual, I find writing scenes like this extremely difficult, so I hope I have included the right amount of sexual tension and titillation – pun intended – without being too vulgar.

Please let me know what you think of this chapter. I hope that you enjoy!

Without further ado …

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**Chapter Fifteen: Suite for House and Cameron in A-Flat Major**

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"Understand this because I am only going to say it once," his voice was harsh with emotion. "What you looked like three months ago, what you look like tonight, what you'll look like tomorrow or a year from now doesn't change the fact that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known."

House backed away from her, surprised by his own words, and sat down heavily on the edge of the tub. That hadn't been what he intended to say – not that he could remember what he _had_ intended to say – it all just sort of came out. For a man who measured every word he said for maximum effect, these spontaneous ones packed one hell of a wallop.

Cameron looked down at him. Her thoughts were a jumble of emotions. She didn't know how he did it. Earlier, House had managed to say exactly the wrong thing and had brought her unimaginable pain and despair. Yet less than twelve hours later he had brought her unparalleled comfort and joy by using precisely the words she needed to hear. More importantly, she had seen the truth of it in his eyes. She was scarred outside and in, her hair was falling out in clumps, she suffered from occasional hand tremors, and she had a medical port surgically implanted in her chest, but at this moment, none of that mattered. Whether or not the rest of the world shared his sentiment wasn't an issue. The one man who had always mattered to her had just said that she was beautiful, and she believed him.

Cameron stepped close and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Take off your shirt," she whispered.

House looked up at her, confusion clear in his face.

"Stand up and give me your shirt."

He did as she requested, and she slipped her arms inside the soft material. His scent on the fabric intoxicated her; his warmth which lingered in the folds of the fabric soothed the chill that had settled into her bones. Securing only the buttons above her chest, Cameron let the towel that had been covering her body drop to the floor.

Cameron looked up at him. House towered over her as he always did, but puzzlement still marred his features. Reaching a hand to his face, she tried to soothe the lines at the corners of his eyes. His wonderfully expressive eyes which now looked down on her with sadness, empathy, and consternation. She stepped closer still. Taking his hand in hers, she tucked it behind her back, forcing him to draw her body to his.

"Make love to me."

So _not_ what he was expecting her to say at the moment, but the night was clearly full of surprises. Several thoughts came to his mind. Yes! Are you sure? Are you nuts? Really? Sweet! Oh, man! What if I screw this up, too? God, I want you!

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her fingertips to his mouth and shook her head. She had seen the doubt in his eyes.

"I, too, will say this only once … again. Make love to me, Gregory." Curling her arm around the back of his neck, she brought his mouth to hers, but she didn't kiss him. Her lips rested mere centimeters beneath his, but she drew him no closer. He had to make the decision.

"Choose," she whispered, her breath mingling with his.

He made his choice in classic House fashion with little left in the way for doubts or uncertainties. It was one of the things she had always admired about him. Once House made a decision, he acted on it with no holding back.

Pulling her body tightly to his own, his mouth claimed his prize in a crushing, possessive kiss. Cameron moaned deeply with pleasure as his tongue clashed with hers, desperate to have that which he had desired for so long.

House pressed her back to the wall as he continued to ravage her mouth with his own. She clutched at his shoulders as his hands wandered down the sides of her body until he found the opening in the shirt she wore. Skimming the smooth skin her naked belly, he wrapped his hand around her hip and pulled her to him, pressing his hardness against her as she pulled his t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans. He broke their kiss long enough to pull it over his head and toss it in the general vicinity of the tub.

Gasping for air, House rested his head in the crook of her shoulder, but his hand continued to trail up and down the smooth nakedness of her back while Cameron nipped and suckled at his earlobe and neck. He gasped when she found a particularly sensitive spot and growled in her ear, "Keep that up, and I'll take you right here."

"Would that be so bad?" she asked breathlessly.

"With any other woman I'd say no, but I'm finding that I'm a selfish bastard where you're concerned. We've waited too damn long to get to this point, and I want to savor every inch of you. Won't be able to do that in this tiny bathroom."

He felt her smile against his neck. "Well then, we'll have to change that." She ducked under his arms which had trapped her against the wall. Without a backward glance Cameron opened the door, walked into her bedroom, and settled herself on her knees in the center of her queen sized bed.

House was right at her heels.

Though he could see that her desire was still as raw and desperate as his own, there was something else that shone from her eyes as she faced him – embarrassment. He noted the way in which Cameron fingered the collar of his shirt which shielded her nakedness from view. It was a nervous habit she had picked up since her mastectomy, and it told him that she was still uneasy about the drastic changes to her own body and how he would react to them.

House pressed a gentle kiss to Cameron's lips. Unbuttoning his jeans, he sat down, pulled them off, and lay down on the bed next to her clad in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. "Sorry. No Chippendale's show. Haven't been able to do that for years – not that I ever did."

"You're perfect," she whispered, running her fingers across the well-toned muscles of his chest.

He snagged her hand in his, forcing her to look at him. "No, Cameron. I'm _not_ perfect. I'm old, I'm mean, and I'm scarred. I'm not perfect in mind, not in soul, not in body." Pulling up the leg of his briefs, House pressed her hand to the mass of scar tissue on his right thigh. "That is _not_ perfection. That is not beauty. That is reality. That is _me_."

House dropped his hand from hers and was both pleased and nervous when it lingered on his flesh. Turning from his gaze, Cameron devoted her attention to the damaged flesh beneath her fingers. She ran her hands gently over the edges of the tissue, tracing the valleys and ridges of the ropy scars with her fingertips. Some of the scars were smooth to the touch while others rougher than his trademark three days of stubble.

He forced himself to relax. It wasn't that her touch was unpleasant, quite the opposite; it was the most delicate torture he'd ever experienced. Nevertheless, this was new territory for him. Never before had he permitted anyone – not even Stacy – such an intimate exploration of his leg since the infarction. Yet, he had chosen to lay himself bare before her in hope that she would see there was nothing feel uncomfortable about with her –

"Oh, God!" he moaned aloud. Cameron's lips and tongue had replaced her hands. Her mouth was moving openly across his ruined flesh. He reaching out he cupped the back of her neck as Cameron continued her oral exploration. With the tip of her tongue she traced the upper most edge of the scar while her fingers hooked around the elastic of his underwear and tugged. Lifting his hips instinctually, House allowed her to pull the garment from his body and again offered his oath of fealty to whatever gods there where when her warm, delicious mouth closed upon the hard length of his erection. Cameron's mouth was even more skilled than he had imagined it would be, and his imagination had been _quite_ vivid.

Cameron knelt before him, the tails of her shirt brushing seductively against his knees as she sucked lightly then with more urgency, teasing him with her hot mouth while her hands wandered up his chest and down again, her delicate nails scraping the sensitive flesh of his nipples. Impossibly, he felt himself grow harder in her mouth. Grabbing her arm as he propped himself up against the headboard, House pulled Cameron up the length of his body, settling her on his lap, legs on either side of his hips. His hardness pressed against the gentle swell of her bottom. Her warmth hovering above him sent a surge of desire flooding through his veins. Wrapping his arms around her back, House pressed her to his naked chest. "Do you understand now?" he demanded even as he ravaged her neck with kisses. "Do you?"

Cameron nodded. "You're not perfect," she groaned as he reached beneath the fabric of her shirt and teased her ribcage with his strong fingers. "Neither am I, but we …" her breath hitched in her throat as the fingers of his other hand teased the tangle of curls between her legs, "we can both still be b-beautiful." Reaching between their bodies, she released the two buttons of the shirt she wore and allowed the concealing fabric to fall open.

House read the tacit consent in her passion-drugged eyes – eyes which Cameron closed while she leaned into him as he kissed her cheek. He slid his hands inside the open flaps of her shirt and pushed the fabric from her shoulders though he did not actually touch her. The gentle breeze which fluttered the curtains of her open bedroom window chilled her warm but newly exposed flesh. The shudder that went through her body was only partly due to the cold, however. House let his hand hover over the taut nipple of her left breast, barely grazing the sensitive flesh as his palm supported the gentle curve and heaviness of it from beneath. His head dipped and his mouth closed hotly over the responsive peak sucking lightly, licking, and nibbling until her breathing broke. His mouth moved upward, his tongue blazing a trail across her upper chest until he found where her pulse throbbed heavily above her collarbone. He closed his mouth on the spot and laved attention on the throbbing rhythm beat out by her heart.

Pulling back, he dropped kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks, and again on her lips before leaning down again to press his mouth to the largest and – in her mind – most disfiguring of her scars. A sob of dismay escaped Cameron's throat, and she began to retreat, but House cupped his hand between her shoulder blades and held her close; he would not let her pull away and hide while he explored her wounded flesh with his mouth just as she had done to him.

Cameron struggled a few more moments, but came to realize that she had no option but to relax, a choice made much easier by the attention given to her flesh by House's lips and tongue. It was such a strange sensation what he made her feel. While the visible scars had healed, the internal nerve damage done by the surgery had left the entire right side of her chest numb to one degree or another. Some days it hurt unbearably while at other times she experienced only an odd prickling sensation. What House made her sense, however, was something entirely new and infinitely more arousing.

He felt Cameron relax against him, so House released his hold on her and allowed his hands to join in the journey his mouth had begun. With each inch of damaged flesh his hands explored, his mouth followed, soothing the creased and uneven skin with warm caresses and kisses that served to only make her more stimulated. Each touch, each kiss was reverent as if he held in his arms a precious idol to worship. Returning to her breast, House's lips danced along the upper curve before biting lightly, then harder, at her nipple.

Cameron's scream of pleasure echoed in the otherwise quiet room; she arched her back, her long blond curls trailing behind her to caress his thighs. She moved restlessly against him, pressing herself against his arousal as the heat and need within her built. He suckled vigorously at her breast. Moving his hips sharply, he pushed her thighs wider and reached down between their bodies. His questing fingers toyed again with her soft curls then delved deeper and were met by her hot wetness. House kissed her passionately, their tongues first caressing then dueling for control while he rubbed his thumb against her sensitive center. House swallowed her gasp of pleasure and eased a finger inside her; he stroked once then twice before he felt her body tense against him. Sliding a second in alongside the first, he accelerated his pace. Cameron grasped at his shoulders, and her breathing quickened; she felt her body tense then release completely. His name shattered on her lips as she succumbed to wave upon wave of pleasure.

Before she had a chance to recover, House shifted beneath her and rolled Cameron onto her back. He felt the expected twinge of pain in his right thigh as he moved but ignored it – he had other things to attend to. Lying across her lower body, House rained kisses down upon her flat belly as his hands skimmed the sensual curve of her hips. Reaching beneath her, he lifted her hips slightly so her legs bent at the knee and raised her to his waiting mouth. Knowing that Cameron would still be sensitive from her release, House parted her swollen folds gently before pressing his tongue to her tender center. Her body jerked as if charged by an electrical current. House smiled wickedly at her response, and continued his ministrations until she was writhing before him.

"House … please," Cameron begged.

"I knew 'Gregory' sounded too good to last," he murmured against her heated flesh.

"H-House!" Cameron gripped his shoulder tightly. She was in no condition to verbally spar with him. "I need you." Her hips bucked urgently, and he knew that she was ready for him.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, House searched quickly through the pockets of his jeans for his wallet, but suddenly remembered that he had left it on the kitchen counter with the keys to his 'Vette. Damn it. Now was so not the time to go condom hunting, but even though Cameron's cycles had been screwed up by the chemotherapy it would be risking too much to not use one.

"In the drawer." Cameron's lust-filled words interrupted his thoughts, and House followed her pointing finger to the bed side table. He didn't need to be told twice. Within moments he was ready and she was again on his lap.

"House …" he heard uncertainty mingled with desire in her voice and sealed her lips with his own. He kissed her long and hard, his skillful tongue erasing all conscious thought from her mind.

Cameron acted solely on instinct as she raised her body above his and slowly guided him within her. Her body, hot and wet yielded to the steel of his erection as she closed about him.

House groaned in pleasure at the sensation. She was so tight, so hot, so wet. And as Cameron began to move slowly atop him, House knew that he had indeed come home. She met each of his thrusts, welcoming him, accepting him into her body as she had already accepted him into her heart.

Their shared hunger and desire grew, and as the pace of their joining quickened, House again suckled at her breast until they were both gasping with need. Their bodies grew slick with sweat in spite of the cool breeze which filtered through the room. House felt the long-dormant power rise and flow through him. Pressing a final kiss to the base of her throat, he allowed that power to consume them as it exploded.

House heard Cameron's cry of release. She clung tightly to him as he shuddered and trembled beneath her. As he let himself succumb to his desire, House groaned in her ear a version of her given name that she hadn't hear in nearly 20 years.

The whispered echo of '_Lyssa_ followed Cameron into her dreams as she fell asleep wrapped in the comfort of House's arms.

She finally had her name.

* * *

**Well? Did you like? Feedback is always so lovely. Thank you for reading!**

**~ Sarah**

**Author Note**: Please be aware that Cameron's new nickname is not pronouced "Lisa" as in Cuddy. It is pronounced with the short "i" sound as in "indian", "interesting" or "All**i**son"


	17. Chapter 16: What Brings You to Princeton

Thank you all for the reviews for the last chapter, though I will admit that I was a bit surprised at how few there were. There were over 600 hits for the chapter but only eleven reviews – the lowest number in over seven chapters. Please understand that I am not complaining, just surprised. I am hoping that people were just too busy, and that I didn't offend with the raciness of the content. Please let me know what you think. Feedback is like manna from heaven to me. If you have added my tale to your author watch list, I would love to hear from you. ~~grin~~

The reviews I did get, however, were balm to my writer's soul. Thank you so much.

I am hoping to get another chapter posted before the end of the weekend, but since it is Mother's Day weekend, things are bound to be a bit swamped. In the meantime, I hope that you all enjoy the following chapter.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: What Brings You to Princeton?**

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**Cameron's Cancer Journal**

**Chemotherapy Cycle Three: June 29****th**

My legs, back, and hips hurt again. I suppose it's technically a fair trade off for the horrific nausea that I suffered as a result of the Adriamycin and Cytoxan treatment. I still have nausea on the Taxol, but it doesn't make me want to die. No, seems I have traded in vomiting for arthralgia and myalgia – oops, sorry, I promised not to do too much of that – I mean joint pain and diffused muscle pain. In a nutshell, for about five days after each Taxol treatment, my body hurts like hell. The pain usually starts a day or so after the chemo. It really is awful, but it's better than throwing up every 20 minutes. I'll admit that after the first cycle of Taxol a few weeks ago, the pain was so bad that I was actually bedridden for two days. Wilson has prescribed Neurontin to help with the pain.

Yet another drug! I swear my nightstand looks like a damn pharmacy. I actually had to buy a pill organizer to keep track of what drugs I have to take and when. It's a good thing that I'm a doctor, but it gets so confusing that I've started to have House double-check what I call my 'pill plan'. I can't imagine how non-medical people keep up. In any event, the Neurontin does help a bit. It at least takes the edge off so I can move and think without wanting to rip my limbs from my body. Today's actually a pretty good day, all in all.

Oh, yeah, and another fun side effect of the Taxol, absolutely no hair. Anywhere. At all. Losing all the hair on my head was bad enough, but even my eyebrows and eyelashes are gone. I've compensated by using false eyelashes when I come to work – I look just too damn weird without them – but I can't draw a decent looking eyebrow to save my life. Clearly it was a good choice for me _not_ to become a surgeon; I just don't have the hands for it, apparently.

House, of course, has his own opinions on my 'defoliation' as he likes to call it. While he thinks that my eyebrow drawing skills would get me instant admission to any clown college in the country, he loves the fact that 'no hair, anywhere' also includes – sorry, Dad, you might want to close your eyes for the next few words – my pubic region. House thinks it's 'so freakin' hot'.

What can I say? It's House.

He and I have been sleeping together for a little over a month now. Okay, now that I have given my father a second heart-attack in as many paragraphs, I should clarify that I do mean _sleeping_, not the other stuff. Well, we do that, too, but it's not something we get to do nearly enough if you ask me. It's rather a bit of a challenge to find enough drive and desire in the midst of pain and cancer treatments. House takes it all in stride, but I'd give anything to increase my libido.

It took some getting used to, though, us sharing a bed. I have never slept easily with another person in the bed next to me. It's one of the reasons why I never really liked to spend the night with Rob when we had our affair. Every twist, turn, cough, sigh, dream, or nightmare would wake me up. It was the same with my husband, too. I always thought it was just because I was a light sleeper. I was wrong. I'm starting to think it was because I wasn't sleeping next to the right man. Now Wilson would probably say it's because of the medication I am taking or the fact that I am tired all the time, but I slept so soundly the night that House and I first made love that I completely forgot that he was in the bed next to me. Needless to say, he wasn't all too thrilled when I woke him up at 6:30 in the morning, screaming in fright.

After I was done 'apologizing' to him, he said that I was more than welcome to apologize whenever the mood struck me, but to keep the early morning shrieking to a minimum. He's an old man, after all.

I do believe my response to that last bit was, "Bullshit!" Old men simply cannot do the things in bed that _he_ manages to do. You'd never know he has only one good leg. Talk about a natural talent for compensation.

I'll end that digression simply by saying that I continue to sleep soundly with him next to me. Unfortunately, if House thinks he is causing me even the least bit of discomfort, he spends the night in the guest room. The only nights he is not at my side are when either his pain or mine is simply too intense that it makes it impossible to share the same space. Usually it's mine, but I hate it when he's not next to me – amazing how quickly I have come to depend on his mere presence – so after chemo treatments, I frequently find myself pretending that I'm not in as much pain as I really am.

_Okay_ enough on that tangent. Back to the canc –

"Excuse me, I'm looking for – oh! Dr. Cameron … is that you?"

Cameron looked up from her laptop. She had taken a break from charting and replying to House's correspondence to work on her journal when the door to House's office had opened and the gentle voice pulled her from her writing. She set her reading glasses on the top of House's desk, stood with a smile, and crossed the room – albeit slowly – to greet the visitor. "Oh! It's so nice to see you again." She offered her hand to Blythe House.

Blythe refused Cameron's hand and pulled her into a gentle hug instead. "I've been meaning to do that since you and your colleagues sent the flowers for John's funeral; the sympathy card you included was very touching and kind. Your words brought me a good deal of solace. Thank you so much."

"I can't take credit for the poem. That was given to me by a friend when _my_ husband died. It was … helpful. I am glad that it brought you some comfort, too."

"May we sit?" Blythe asked, her eyes full of concern for the young doctor before her who was so clearly ill.

"Please do." Cameron gestured to the sofa before turning back to the desk. "Let me just page your son. House will want to know that you're here."

"No. He'll probably want to hop on that horrific motorcycle of his and head for the Canadian border when he finds out I'm here."

Mothers always knew their sons. "Well, then, I'll just page him back to the office without telling him why," Cameron said. She always enjoyed a good conspiracy whenever House was involved. "He'll see it as an excuse to get out of clinic duty. He's _always_ looking for an excuse to get out of clinic duty." Cameron dialed and waited for the automated system prompts.

Blythe observed the younger woman quietly while she was on the phone. Cancer. Breast cancer more than likely from the way she slumped her shoulders. Though she had only met Dr. Cameron once before, she had been struck by the way in which the petite woman had carried herself – nobly, gracefully, extending her body to its full height. It was a subtle change in her stance, but a woman knew. Blythe had several friends who had been stricken by the disease, and they had all had that same posture after their mastectomies as they tried to hide what they wrongfully perceived as a disfigurement that somehow made them less of a woman. Blythe remembered long dark hair, an exquisite shade of auburn, but clearly that was gone, too. The intricately tied decorative head scarf that Dr. Cameron wore was a becoming yet poor substitute for that lovely hair. Her complexion was just a bit ashen and there were delicate hollows under her green eyes.

"I've never understood chemotherapy," Blythe said when Cameron hung up the phone. "It simply baffles me how poisoning the body, killing it off bit by bit, can cure the cancer destroying it. Such an insidious treatment."

"It's a sinister disease." Cameron shrugged her shoulders. The mother was just as direct as the son, though markedly more courteous. "I guess in some way it makes sense that the treatment is just as menacing." She pressed the 'do not disturb' button on the phone. House would want a chance to speak to his mother in private without disruption. Her fingers had started to tingle again, so Cameron tightened her hands into fists and shook them out in an attempt to restore her circulation. Too much time spent on the computer yet again. The last thing she needed was to add Carpal Tunnel Syndrome to her list of ailments. Mindful of the muted throbbing in her hips and knees, Cameron gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa next to House's mother.

"I thought Greg told me that you had left his practice, Dr. Cameron."

"Call me Allison," she insisted. After all, I am sleeping with your son, she thought. "I'm running the administrative side of the practice and serving as something of a consultant while I'm undergoing treatment."

"And knowing how much Greg hates doing paperwork, I have no doubt that the practice is thriving under your guidance. He's a brilliant physician –that's not just a mother's pride talking – but he has no head for business."

"We're doing well," Cameron conceded. House's case load had more than doubled in the nearly three months since she had taken over his correspondence, and though he complained – loudly – about all the extra work, he secretly loved all the unique medical puzzles she had managed to place in front of him. He didn't complain about all the additional money padding his paychecks, either.

"And how are _you_ doing, Allison?" Blythe asked. Some may have considered her question intrusive given that she didn't know the young doctor all that well, but the personal sympathy card she had sent had provided Blythe a great deal of insight into the woman sitting next to her. They were both widows, too. The shared experience of losing a beloved husband was as a good a place as any to start a new friendship.

"As well as can be expected at this stage of my treatment. It feels like I am constantly undergoing medical tests, but the chemotherapy seems to be doing what it should. There's no sign that the cancer has metastasized."

"I am glad to hear it." Blythe patted Cameron lightly on the knee. It was strange. Prior to this meeting, Cameron had shared only a handful of words – both spoken and written – with Blythe House, and yet she felt as though she had known the older woman for years. Her stylish brown hair was a shade or two lighter than her son's, but they shared the same intense blue eyes. Nothing could hide from those eyes. They saw everything.

Cameron couldn't help but wonder just what it was they saw when they looked at her.

"What brings you to Princeton, Mrs. House?"

"Yeah, Mom. What brings you to Princeton?" House leaned against the frame of the glass door connecting his office to the conference room door. The window blinds were still partially drawn from when Cameron had napped earlier in the afternoon, and the pair had been so wrapped up in their amiable conversation that neither woman saw or heard him come in.

"Hello, Greg!" Blythe reached out a hand to her son who was obliged to limp across the room, take it in his, and kiss his mother warmly on the cheek. All of this done under the patient, watchful, and quietly amused gaze of Allison Cameron. "I'm here to see you, of course," she said.

"Why?" House's eyes narrowed suspiciously. They had talked regularly since the funeral and not once had she hinted at any plans to come to New Jersey.

Blythe though about evading the question, but there really was no need. "I have some things to discuss with you about John's estate. I've tried calling you all week, but you're never home."

"No …" House glanced quickly at Cameron. "No, I've not been at home much lately. You know you should just call my cell."

Cameron sensed a bit of tension starting to rise in House. Clearly he had not yet told his mother that he was living with her. She suddenly felt like an intruder. "I'll leave the two of you alone so that you can talk."

"Thank you, Allison," Blythe said with a smile.

"Cameron, you don't have to –"House said at the same time, voice tinged with desperation.

Cameron couldn't help but appreciate the irony. The last time House's mother came to town it was all he could do to get Cameron to leave so he could talk with his mother – and, unfortunately, father – in private; now apparently all he wanted was for her to stay while he talked to his mom. Ahh, revenge was sweet.

"I have to go talk with Taub anyway. Something about the PET scan on Eddie Kudelin coming out odd." Taub was definitely improving as a diagnostician – there were times when House was almost impressed with the man … almost – but sometimes he still thought so much like a plastic surgeon it was painful to watch.

Cameron stood and walked to the door, but stumbled after the first step. House grabbed her by the elbow to steady her. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

She flexed her foot back and forth to try to get the tingles out. "Foot just fell asleep is all," she replied, leaning against him while she massaged her instep.

"You're sure you're all right?" He scanned her up and down searching for some other malady that might interfere with her overall 'good' health, and Cameron smiled at his obvious concern.

"House, I've been curled up in that desk chair of yours for the last five hours. I'm fine." She tested her weight by degrees until she was certain that the pain and discomfort was diminishing. "I'll be back later. Enjoy your chat," she whispered to him, smiling when he frowned.

"Mask," he called as she pulled open the glass door.

"House, I'm well past the nadir. My cell count is fine." She really hated wandering around the hospital in a surgical mask all the time. It scared the patients.

"And to keep your blood cell count 'fine', as you say, you will wear the mask!" he insisted, pinning her with his icy blue gaze.

"Fine!" With a loud huff, Cameron pulled a mask from the box on bookshelf hooked it over her ears as she left, her mimic of 'Mask!' echoing down the hallway in her wake.

Blythe carefully watched the exchange between Allison Cameron and her son with open curiosity. Something had clearly developed in their association since she had last visited Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It definitely wasn't _just_ professional, but just how personal it had become was still unclear.

"She's a lovely woman, Greg," she said casually, easing back into the sofa.

"Mom, please!" House rubbed his forehead and pivoted on his cane to face her. Amazing how quickly a headache can come on with a single probing question from one's mother.

"You mean she's not a lovely woman?"

"I mean that I don't really want to discuss Cameron with you."

"So there _is_ something to discuss, but you're trying to avoid talking about it with your mother who can always tell whether or not you're telling her the truth."

House opened his mouth to respond then shut it. His brows furrowed. He leaned heavily on his cane and stared down at her. "How in the hell am I supposed to respond to that? I say 'yes' and I'm stuck in here discussing my personal life with my mother which I'm sure would have been Dante's Tenth Circle of Hell if he had gotten around to writing it. I say 'no' and the guilt trip starts as to why I am lying to my mother – again, the Tenth Circle of Hell." He cocked his head and stared at her in admiration. "Damn you're good!"

"Of course I am dear. I raised _you_, didn't I? I wasn't able to keep two steps head of you all the time just on my sunny disposition and butterscotch chip cookies?"

House settled into his lounge chair and propped his leg on the ottoman, cane placed across his lap. He'd been down in the clinic for six hours treating every imaginable variation of stupidity. His leg was killing him, but he wasn't about to pop a Vicodin in front of his mother.

He tossed his pager across the room to his desk and reached into his pocket to turn off his cell phone. Mom wanted to talk, so they would talk. He would admit that she was the only one he would do this for. Well, her and maybe Cameron. "So what about the estate?" he asked.

They talked for several minutes about the will. John House had been far thinking enough to transfer all of his assets into a living trust with his wife as the trustee. There had been no probate, and Blythe had managed to successfully pay off what few debts her husband had left behind after his death. His life insurance policy had been substantial as had his real estate dealings and stock market portfolio –John had pulled out _before_ things got bad. Additionally, he had enrolled in the Survivor Benefit Plan through the United States Military. John House had left his wife of 50 years quite a wealthy woman.

"I am having my attorney draw up the paperwork for another living trust. This time with you as the trustee, Greg."

"I don't want your money, Mom."

"Well, you're going to get it."

"Leave it to charity."

"I've already done that. Though I hope it will be many years yet before I die, I've left a considerable donation to Operation Homefront. They offer emergency support to our troops, their families left behind during deployment, and to wounded soldiers upon their return home. It's quite a wonderful organization. I wish they had been around when your father was still active duty. It would have been a help. Your Dr. Cameron first brought them to my attention through the donation she made in your father's memory."

"She's not _my_ Dr. Cameron," House corrected more out of habit than accuracy. "What donation?"

"You didn't know?"

"Obviously not. How much did she donate?"

"One doesn't talk about such things, Greg. You know that. I'll just say that it was substantial."

"_How_ substantial?" Dropping his leg to the floor, House leaned forward intently in his chair.

"Ten thousand dollars," Blythe admitted quietly. She was still in awe of Allison's generosity. "As I said, Greg, she's a lovely woman."

House dropped his eyes to his clasped hands. "It would seem." The only thing he had donated after the funeral was a stolen sample of John House's skin to the PPTH DNA Lab. Animosity, loathing, and enmity were all polite terms for what House felt toward the man he had called 'Dad' for 48 years, but never once had he stopped to consider how his doing next to nothing after the man died might have affected his mother. She had loved the man, and House loved her.

He had been an ass. He had thought of no one but himself. Again.

They had worked out their differences that stemed from his 'speech' at the funeral, and he really didn't want to hurt his mother again. House had been about to apologize to her when Foreman came bursting into the office. He was slightly out of breath.

"What's wrong?" House demanded. Foreman never got that look on his face unless there was a serious problem.

"It's Cameron."

"Where?" House was on his feet in an instant, cane in hand.

"Radiology." Foreman responded as House brushed roughly past him on his way to the elevator, Blythe following closely behind.

House pressed the elevator button several times in quick succession with the end of his cane, his eyes never leaving the display which still registered the first floor. "Taking too long," he muttered and took off hobbling to the stairwell. Distantly he heard his mother ask what had happened as well as Foreman's reply, but all House could focus on was the fact that something was wrong with Cameron and he had to get to Radiology. Shoving the stairwell door open, House braced his body between the railing and his cane and dropped down the stairs three at a time, barely pausing at the landings, until he reached the first floor. He felt his leg start to cramp, but still he pushed on. House was in the main corridor next to the hospital lobby. He turned left at the third intersection, right after two more, then another left. Why hospitals had to be such a fucking maze was something he had never understood. Was it a freaking fire code requirement or something?

There she was!

She was sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall outside of the PET Scan Lab. Cameron's hands rested palm up in her lap, and her legs were splayed out on the floor in front of her. From a distance, she appeared to House as if she were a rag doll that someone had simply thrown away.

House dropped his cane to the floor – it had become more of a hindrance than a help – and hobbled awkwardly as quickly as he could the last 50 feet. As he got closer he saw the blood that dripped from a cut above her right eye. Taub was pressing a pad of gauze to the wound with one hand while he checked her pulse with the other. The patterned scarf she had worn on her head was a bloody mess piled on the floor next to her.

"Strangely enough, you beat the EMTs," Taub said as House knelt on the floor next to him. "They're on their way."

"What in the hell happened?"

"She fell," Taub said.

"I'm surrounded by geniuses. Of course she fell, moron. I want to know _why_ she fell!"

Cameron opened her eyes. "Don't yell at Chris. This isn't his fault, House."

She saw Foreman and Blythe House standing further down the corridor. Foreman looked agitated. Mrs. House looked distressed as well though she turned at the sound of the EMTs coming down the hallway toward them.

House took one of her hands in his and squeezed it, but she didn't return the gesture. "I'd rather you didn't change your name to 'Grace', so why did you fall?" He asked with a patience in his voice that he did not feel.

Cameron looked down at their joined hands as if they belonged to someone else. She swallowed hard and turned her eyes to his. "I can't feel my hands or feet."

* * *

Feedback? Please! Nothing is a better treat than waking up in the morning and seeing what people have to say about this little tale.

**Author's Note:** Operation Homefront is a real non-profit organization in the United States dedicated to helping our soldiers and their families.


	18. Chapter 17: No Choice to Stick Around

I learned today that the mother of one of my former students has been diagnosed with a rare form of breast cancer. When you consider the fact that one in eight women will be diagnosed with the disease, it's really only a matter of time before everyone knows someone who has this scourge. Nevertheless, the seeming surge in people I know being diagnosed with this evil disease is saddening to say the least. For me that's now five women in the course of 18 months. It is for them, their families, and friends that I write this story. I don't know if it will make any difference in the grand scheme of things, but it is something I now feel I _need_ to do. This story originally started as just a little fiction to bring House and Cameron together, but somewhere along the way it became something more, something … alive and tangible for me. I'm sorry if that sounds silly, but it's an accurate representation of how I feel about this account now.

I thank you all for the feedback that has been given for the last few chapters. I have now nearly 23,000 hits and nearly 8,000 visitors since the prologue was published a month ago. Thank you for reading.

I hope that you find something worthwhile in the following chapter.

~ Sarah

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: No Choice But to Hang Around**

* * *

"Tingling, numbness, anything else?" Wilson asked. House had paged him as soon Cameron was taken to the ER. He checked Cameron's hands, and then asked her to button a few of the buttons from the shirt House had helped her discard in favor of a hospital gown, but her fingers struggled with the task. Fine motor skills were impaired.

"It was like I couldn't remember where my feet and hands were. One minute I'm walking out of the lab, and the next it was as if my feet didn't exist at the end of my legs."

"Loss of positional sense. Squeeze." Wilson extended both of his index fingers. Cameron wrapped her hands around them and squeezed. The right hand demonstrated adequate strength, but her left was noticeably weaker. "Any pain? Burning?"

"Both. It was bad earlier, but it seems to have eased some," Cameron admitted.

Wilson ran the handle of a reflex hammer along the bottom of each bare foot to test her plantar reflexes. Diminished in both feet, but more noticeably in her right.

"Peripheral neuropathy," Wilson diagnosed. "We'll run a PET scan to rule out brain metastases, blood tests and an LP to check for vitamin deficiencies and MS, and an ECG to look for a transient ischemic attack, but I don't –"

"You think I had a mini-stoke?" Cameron asked, horrified.

"No. Just like I _don't_ think the cancer has metastasized, but I'd like to rule it all out. The neuropathy is a side effect from the Taxol. I had hoped you managed to avoid it when the symptoms didn't appear after your first cycle, but it looks like it just took a little bit longer to get going." He jotted a few notes into her medical chart then set it on the end of the ER gurney Cameron currently occupied and rubbed his face with his hand. "I'm just surprised at the sudden onset. It's usually more gradual."

"It was," House said from the back of the cubicle where he leaned against the wall. "We just didn't recognize it for what it was."

Wilson turned to face his friend. "What do you mean?"

"How many times in the last week has your foot fallen asleep?" he asked Cameron.

"I don't know … four, five times," she answered.

"And the tingling in your hands that you thought was just from typing too long at the computer? That's been going on for about three weeks."

Cameron's eyes grew wide with realization. He was right.

"I'm not surprised _you_ missed it," House continued. "You're head hasn't been on straight in weeks. Damn chemotherapy's turning your brain to cream of mushroom soup."

"House!" Wilson admonished.

"No, James. He's right," agreed Cameron. "Chemo-brain set in right after the first Taxol treatment. Half the time I can't remember if I have taken all my meds. I couldn't remember my mother's phone number last night, and earlier I had to ask Foreman what day it was. Not because I didn't know it was Monday but because I couldn't remember the _word_ 'Monday'." She wished she had remembered to bring a spare hat to work today. Her head was cold and it was making the rest of her cold, too. She struggled to pull the sheet farther up her chest, but her fingers just couldn't grip the material. House saw Cameron's struggles and limped forward to do it for her. She smiled in thanks.

"See, Cameron's losing her mind, but that doesn't explain why_ I_ didn't catch the symptoms," he said.

"House, everyone's foot falls asleep and writer's cramp is practically an occupational hazard," Wilson rationalized.

"No! I missed it, and I shouldn't have. She could have been seriously hurt today. What if she had been walking down the stairs when she fell?" He turned to Cameron. "From now on, _anything_ remotely wrong with you is a potential symptom."

"I'm going to admit you for observation and testing," Wilson told her.

"I want my team to run the tests," House insisted. "Foreman'll do the lumbar puncture. He has the steadiest hands."

"I'm fine with that." Wilson shrugged his shoulders. "Allison, I'll schedule you some time with a physical therapist, and we'll postpone your next chemotherapy treatment for a week to see if the symptoms resolve themselves."

"And if they don't?" Cameron really didn't want to start experimenting with new chemo drugs again.

"We might consider switching to your radiotherapy and finishing up the chemo later."

"I thought you said that was dangerous?" House struggled to keep his concern from his voice, but a look from Cameron told him he hadn't been overly successful.

"There are some … complications that can develop with using Taxol after radiation, which is why I suggested we save the radiation until after the chemo was completed, but given how severe her reaction was to the A/C treatment, I'd be reluctant to try her out on any of the other combinations. About ten percent of Taxol users suffer from radiation recall – a rash that's like a nasty sunburn – but there are medications we can use to mitigate the effects if we have to. House, I'm not going to put Allison in any danger. You know that."

House trusted that Wilson wouldn't deliberately hurt Cameron, but he didn't like the idea of her experiencing any more pain or discomfort than she already had.

"This whole process is going to be just one unknown factor after another, isn't it?" Cameron sounded tired.

"It's cancer," Wilson said, resignedly. "There are no guarantees other than that there are no guarantees."

"And they say _I'm_ the one with the piss-poor beside manner. Way to make a patient feel optimistic about her future, Wilson," House patted his friend's shoulder mockingly.

Wilson glared at House then turned back to Cameron. "Since she's your ER physician, I'll ask Thirteen to stitch up that head laceration before we send you to a room."

"No," House countered. "Taub."

"Are you going to tell me how to do every aspect of my job? Don't forget that Allison is _my_ patient. Not yours." Wilson was starting to get annoyed with House's interference.

"Your patient. _My_ responsibility. And I'll counter-order whenever I feel that you're making stupid decisions. Taub's a plastic surgeon. Duh! That scar will probably be just below the hairline – assuming her hair ever grows back – so we might as well do it right the first time."

"Oh. Yeah. I hadn't thought of that."

"I know. That's why _I'm_ here."

"Are you two done deciding my medical future? I mean, I know I'm only the _patient_, but shouldn't I have some say in …" Cameron interrupted.

"No!" House and Wilson shouted at the same time. Wilson looked immediately contrite, but House glared at her defiantly. His aura of command radiated through the room.

"Okay …" Cameron started muttering under her breath about over-protective alpha-males with medical degrees.

"I'll go page Chris and start the paperwork to get you admitted. Might be a bit yet before a room's ready," Wilson grabbed her chart and started out of the cubicle.

"Jimmy, my mother's still out there somewhere, would you …"

"I'll let her know, House," Wilson promised and disappeared around the edge of the curtain.

Cameron leaned back against the pillows and stared at House. He looked worn out. He was leaning heavily against his cane. Was it the awful ER lighting, or did his hair seem grayer than it had just a few months ago? "Sit down before you fall down, would you?"

It was a testament to his exhaustion that for once House didn't argue with her and settled himself in the chair against the wall. "God, you're complicated," he said with a sigh. He propped his leg against the side of the gurney and slumped down in the chair.

"Oh, and you're so simple and straightforward to deal with."

"You know what I mean."

"I do," she sighed. Cameron turned her head and assessed the ceiling tiles. Sometimes it was all just too much. Too much pain. Too much uncertainty. Too ... much. "You can still get out, you know." Her voice was soft.

He raised his head, his face puzzled. "On the scale of vague declarations that's about a nine. Care to clarify, or is this chemo-brain talking again?"

She rolled on the gurney to face him. "This is more than you signed on for, House. I wouldn't hold it against you if you wanted to just get out and –"

"And what?" he asked. There was an edge to his voice as if she had just insulted him. "Just sit back and watch you fall apart as you try to take care of yourself? Now that's a brilliant idea. You've made it so I've no choice but to hang around and make sure you don't inadvertently get yourself killed by taking the wrong combination of meds or by knocking your head off when your feet give out from under you."

"What do you mean I've made it so you have no choice but to hang around?"

Damn her and her perceptiveness. Leave it to Cameron to pick up on the _one_ phrase in his entire diatribe that he _didn't_ want her to notice. Time for evasion tactic 33-Delta. "Just because I'm a bastard doesn't mean that I'm about to leave you high and –"

Cameron's look silenced him. Had he used that one on her before? He couldn't remember. House felt himself wither under that pointed gaze. In some ways it was worse than the ones his mother used to give him when he was a child and mouthing-off with an 'air of superiority that no child under the age of 25 should have mastered.'

"The blackmail was just a ploy, wasn't it?" Cameron's epiphany was sudden and heart-stopping.

House said nothing, but he suddenly found the cracks in the linoleum floor simply fascinating. It was all the answer she needed.

"It was! I should have known. Why take the direct path when evasions and lies will get you the same result with half the effort?"

"Oh! Now, hey! There was _a lot_ of effort involved. It's not like that idea sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus, ya know. _You_ may think I'm a god among men, but the truth is that –"

"House!" Her voice was still soft but demanded an answer from him.

He paused. "Does it make a difference?" If she didn't know him better, she'd think he actually sounded contrite.

Cameron thought for a long moment for an answer to his question. Typical of him to evade her question by asking one of his own, but in this case it was a fair one to ask. House had traded on her innate weakness wherever he was concerned and had wheedled his way into her life through deceit and half-truths. Everybody lies. But did it always matter?

"No," she decided. "It doesn't make a difference. I think I'm actually grateful that you did it. A home nurse never would have been what I needed, but if I hadn't had you at my side all this time, I don't think I ever would have seen what a horrible idea that was. Goodness knows I'm stubborn enough that the direct approach wouldn't have worked. I'd have dug my heels in and kept you at a distance even though the one thing I would have wanted more than anything would have been you at my side. House, as awful as the last few months have been for me physically," Cameron chose her words carefully, "emotionally, I've never felt more alive. You've done that for me."

House stood and walked nervously to the edge of her bed. He began to pace. "You've really lost it, you know? I get that you love me and all – Hey, is it possible to get chemo-brain _before_ you start chemo? It might explain the dementia you've been suffering from for months – but why you persist in –"

"House! Stop the self-deprecating bullshit and just listen to me!" Cameron pounded her fist on the bed in frustration. They had been down this road before, and she was getting tire of it. She was so annoyed with him, in fact, that she failed to register that she hadn't actually felt her left hand make contact with the mattress. "I thought we'd already covered this to everyone's satisfaction, but I guess you need a refresher. And you say that _I'm_ complicated!" She took a breath and forced herself to speak calmly. He needed to really _listen_ to what she said next, and House typically listened better when he wasn't being yelled at.

"You told me once that I needed to open my eyes to the fact that you're not perfect, and you were right – to a point."

"I can now assume that you intend to wax philosophical on said 'point'?"

"You're older than me. You're crippled. You're mean. You're caustic. You're a pain in the ass."

"If that's your way of convincing me that you love me, your connotation of the word 'love' is in serious need of an overhaul."

She glared at him again, and he shut up.

"By all definitions, you are _not_ perfect, but you forgot one important thing."

"Oh, did I?" He leaned on his cane in a way that had always said to her 'so the student's going to lecture the teacher now, is she?'

"You forgot that all your imperfections are what made you perfect … for me. Do you think I would have invited you into my heart, into my bed, if you weren't?"

No. She wouldn't have. After three months of living with her and a month of sleeping next to her, he knew that now. House also knew that this was the longest association he had had with a woman in over five years, and that even with all the trials caused by her cancer, it was by far the strongest link he had felt with another person – ever. That is why he was scared. That is why he fought her and his own feelings.

The question he needed to answer now was whether or not he really wanted to fight anymore.

House pivoted on his cane and turned from her. He thought for a moment about all the things they had experienced and shared in the last several weeks. There had been the vomit and the pain pills, the nightmares and the joint pain. But there had also been her amusement at the fact he always hummed off-key in the shower when at all other times he had perfect pitch. His confusion at the fact that she always ate her shredded wheat with a glass of milk rather than in a bowl of milk. Her joy when he admitted that he was down to five Vicodin a day. His pride when she told him that her music therapist had said she had mastered her introductory piano class.

"We are the _strangest_ pair I've ever known," he admitted. His words were soft and directed at the privacy curtain but nevertheless meant for her ears. "The Diseased and the Infirm."

"Are we?"

"Diseased and infirm? Yeah. I'd say we've got those terms pretty well covered."

"No. I mean, are we … a _pair_?" Cameron didn't want him to hear the hope in her voice.

House realized that he had his answer, and it hadn't been all that difficult to find, just difficult to accept. Until now.

He turned slowly at her words. Resting his free hand on her left foot, he ran his fingers lightly across the toes, troubled with the knowledge that if she could feel his contact it would be but slightly. The caress of both his hand and eyes drifted up her shin and thigh, stroked the curve of her hip before skimming against the sensitive skin of her ribcage where only the thin material of the sheet and the thinner fabric of her hospital gown kept the warmth of his skin from hers. The pad of his thumb skated across the swell of Cameron's left breast, and a small smile tugged at his lips as the nipple grew taut beneath the gown. His fingers lingered at the strong and now rapid pulse that beat at the base of her throat before he finally cupped her cheek in his hand. Only then did House look at her face which was just a bit flushed with desire. He pressed a kiss to the top of her bare hear – amazed as he always was at the softness of that skin. His lips remained a moment more before they descended to her temple, thence to her nose, and finally hovered above her mouth. Cameron's heart beat quickly in her chest for she could see in his blue eyes that he had come to a decision about something.

"To answer your question, I have no choice but to hang around because being without you would hurt just too damn much, and you know how I am about pain, 'Lyssa" House whispered against Cameron's mouth before he finally claimed her lips with his own.

Cameron smiled against his mouth and wound her fingers through his short hair, tousling it even more than he had himself throughout the afternoon. Yes, she thought, they were _definitely_ a pair.

**

Blythe House pulled the privacy curtain closed the last three inches, ensuring the couple within the seclusion she had almost intruded upon. Sitting down in an empty chair just down the hallway from the cubicle, she considered what she had seen and heard.

Her son was in love. That much was clear. The way in which his lips had lingered on Allison's bare head and mouth spoke to his affection for her. Dr. Wilson had let it slip that Greg had taken it upon himself to care for her almost since the beginning of her treatment; hence the evidence of his devotion for Greg would _never_ expend so much of his time and energy on someone he did not care deeply about. Allison's eyes, in turn, had shown with utter fidelity for the man who – they would be dismayed to discover their friend was so loose of tongue when it came to their personal lives – she had apparently loved for years.

It warmed Blythe's heart to see her son so content.

It also scared the hell out of her.

Blythe rubbed her temple to ward off the headache that was quickly coming on.

It had been a long time – decades in fact – since she had last seen Greg truly happy. Oh, she had liked Stacy well enough, but she had always known _that_ relationship would never last. Stacy and Greg had been too much alike – both passionate, both stubborn, both driven. Even in the short time they had spoken together in Greg's office, Blythe had identified those traits in Allison Cameron as well, but unlike Stacy, Allison clearly managed to temper those aspects of her personality with compassion, dedication, and an innate kindness that could not be forged.

Blythe was convinced that Allison was the perfect life companion for her son.

But the simple fact of the matter was that Allison might be dying.

Blythe didn't want to even consider the devastation such a loss would wreak on Greg's life. Blythe understood grieving the loss of a spouse all too well, but she had enjoyed a lifetime with John. Greg's love for Allison – assuming he had even acknowledged it _as_ love; her boy was both outrageously stubborn and obtuse when it came to the more delicate yet powerful emotions – was tender and fragile though it grew stronger each day in the forge of adversity. He had always guarded himself against pain so carefully that on those rare occasions when he did open himself to love, he threw his whole heart into it, left nothing back.

If Allison died, it could well destroy him. Maybe not in body, but Blythe knew Greg well enough to say with certainty that he would never allow himself to know happiness again. He would see the risk as being just too great.

Oh, Greg, she thought. Leave it to you to fall for the one woman who could bring you either a lifetime of joy or an eternity of agony. You never could do things the easy way, could you, but couldn't _this_ have been different? She knew the answer to her mental plea.

Well, then. If that was the choice he was going to make, then Blythe would just have to do everything she could to make sure that lovely Allison Cameron became a breast cancer _survivor_ rather than just another statistic. There were no guarantees, Blythe knew that, but as she loved her son, she had to try.

The look of determination that crossed Blythe's face at that moment was one that was familiar to the denizens of PPTH, and it was a look that typically made the weaker inhabitants run with fear or stand in awe – whichever struck their fancy – for they saw it on Gregory House's face every time he was faced with a medical puzzle that he couldn't solve but somehow managed to anyway.

Smoothing her tailored skirt as she rose from the chair, Blythe House strode purposefully in the direction she had last seen Dr. James Wilson. There were a few things they needed to discuss.

* * *

**Feedback is always adored. If you found something you liked, I would love to hear about it. If you've added this story to your favorites or alerts list, I'd love to hear from you, too.**

**Music selections listened to while crafting this chapter (some people like to know this):**

- "Labor of Love", "Hella Bar Fight", and "Enterprising Young Men" from _Star Trek_ composed by Michael Giacchino

- "All of Them" and "Another Brick in Hadrian's Wall" from _King Arthur_ composed by Hans Zimmer

- "Che Valiers de Sangreal" and "The Citrine Cross" from _The DaVinci Code_ composed by Hans Zimmer

- "April" and "Revolutionary Road" from _Revolutionary Road_ composed by Thomas Newman


	19. Chapter 18: Prelude to a New Life in D

Sorry about the wait for this chapter. The seniors had their last day this week, and it's been all about getting grading done before they check out. Lucky ducks get the rest of the week off before graduation on Monday. I am jealous! Consequently, the writing had to stay tucked away in the hard drive for awhile.

Thank you again for all the reviews of the last chapter. It was nice to see some comments from people some new people, though I always enjoy hearing the reactions of those of you who have been with me since the beginning.

In regard to the Season Five season finale "Both Sides Now", all I can say is that while we House/Cameron fans didn't get what we wanted, the House/Cuddy fans didn't either. It's a balance I can live with … for the time being.

I have tried to atone for my tardiness in posting this chapter by making it the longest chapter so far. I hope that you enjoy.

~ Sarah

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**Chapter Eighteen: Prelude to a New Life in D Major**

* * *

**Cameron's Cancer Journal**

**Radiation Treatments: T Minus Four Days (aka: July 16)**

I got a tattoo today! Four of them, actually. I know what's going through your mind, Mom. 'Allison Lynne Simpson, what were you thinking?!' But the truth of the matter is, _this_ decision was completely out of my hands, and no, House did _not_ talk me into it. If he had, I wouldn't be stuck with four blue dots each the size of a pinhead. This is _not_ my idea of a first tattoo. If I had my 'druthers, I would have chosen a caduceus or a tree frog or an etching of Gravedigger. Unfortunately for me, monster truck replicas don't make good boundary markers for radiation treatments, so I am stuck with four blue dots.

They're not too bad, I suppose. At least not when you take into account how crappy the rest of my chest looks. What's a few permanent markings when the rest of that expanse looks like 'Chucky's Road Map to Hell?' Can you tell that I still hate the way my chest looks? Nah. Didn't think so. I really must work on being more direct.

Wait a minute. Was I just channeling House?

So, I guess you can infer from the above that we're switching my treatment around – again. My peripheral neuropathy symptoms didn't resolve themselves as well as James would have liked. Hell, they haven't resolved as well as _I_ would have liked. My damn hands and feet hurt all the time, so it's off the chemo for a while. I start five weeks of daily radiation therapy in four days. I had my 3-D planning session with the radiology techs today where they mapped out _every_ aspect of my treatments – hence the tattoos. We'll finish up the chemo once that's done in five weeks or so. The neuropathy may go away and come back once I pick the Taxol up again. It may stay away forever. It may never go away at all. Sounds fun, huh?

Timed myself. Took me eight minutes and thirty three seconds to type out those first three paragraphs, and there were only nineteen errors that I had to go back and correct this time. That's a vast improvement over the twelve minutes and thirty-two errors for a similar amount of typing in my last journal entry. Seems the physical therapy and medications are actually helping some. I can mostly feel my right hand which is a good thing considering that's my dominant hand. On the other hand – pun intended – it feels like I'm always wearing a tight glove on my left. The sensations are so muted that I still have difficulty doing mundane tasks like buttoning my clothes or gripping the steering wheel to drive my car, and don't even get me started on the weakness.

Needless to say, House has taken over not only those tasks – I haven't driven a car since I collapsed in Radiology – but he massages my hands and feet every night to help with the circulation. It feels so damn good. If I weren't already in love with him, I'd have fallen hard the first time he took my left hand in both of his and started kneading the skin. It helps so much with the pain. My left foot is almost completely back to normal – just some numbness in the instep – but the right is a lot like my left hand, only more so. I have to be _very_ careful when I walk. I still have trouble remembering just where my foot is sometimes – such an odd sensation – and I have stumbled more than once.

Consequently, late last week House presented me with a gift of sorts – a black lacquered, derby-handled cane with blue flames spiraling up the shaft from the tip. He had apparently rush-ordered it from the company that supplies his canes after I nearly wiped out the entire line in the cafeteria when I accidently caught my foot on the edge of the salad bar. Not my most graceful moment. I must remember to thank Dr. Fitzsimmons for breaking my fall. I hope that burn he received on his forearm from my coffee didn't bother him too much.

"Why not red flames like yours?" I had asked House when he was done showing me the finer points of cane-usage. While most people use their canes on the side opposite their injury, using my left hand isn't really an option, so the cane has stayed in my right, just as House uses his. In a way it makes some sense. I've been watching him limp around on a stick for five years that it was almost second nature when I started to use mine.

"There can be only _one_ with red flames. That's mine!" he responded haughtily, twirling his cane about in his fingertips. A trick I knew I would never master, even if I had the full use of my hands. That skill comes from years of practice and idle time. Although I treasure his gift, I hope to use it only a short while. The sooner I can store it in the closet with my umbrellas the better. "Besides, wouldn't want to get them mixed up now would we," House added.

"Oh yeah, because the fact that the handles are different and that mine is about six inches shorter than yours is _so_ hard to notice. Duplicate red flames would just muddle you completely."

"That's sass, right?" he said. It wasn't a question. With House it never is. "You're sassing me."

"Got it in one."

"Good for you." He smiled as he sat down. House seems to be at his happiest when I give him as good as he gives me. It makes for an odd relationship, but it works. "Blue burns hotter, you know."

I sat down on the sofa next to him and propped my cane against the coffee table next to his. "What do you mean?"

"In a fire, the blue flames usually burn the hottest," he had explained. "Upwards of 1,300 degrees Celsius, in fact." I'm sure that knowledge is trapped somewhere in my chemo-riddled brain, but at the time I was thankful for the explanation, though the reason for his dissertation still eluded me.

"And this is important because …"

"Cameron, for a woman who oozes compassion and idealism from her pores, you can be outrageously clueless when it comes to symbolism."

I will admit to having been at a complete loss at that moment.

Before I continue, I should probably explain a few things about 'chemo-brain'. It causes me to forget things that I normally have no trouble remembering – like my address or House's cell phone number. I have trouble focusing; some days I find myself sitting in House's office staring out the window and can't remember just how long I've been there. Dates, names – they're another huge problem. I called Lisa Cuddy 'Stacy' the other day. Thankfully House wasn't present – only James. I can't imagine what his reaction would have been to _that_ slip. It takes me three times as long to do things as it used to; it's like my thinking and processing center is stuck in first gear. You really _don't_ want to know how many times I have had to stop in the middle of this journal entry to remember a particular word. Never thought that I'd have trouble digging up the words 'tree frog'. Oh, and I can forget all about multi-tasking. Yesterday morning I was making breakfast when the phone rang. I continued cooking the eggs while answering Kutner's questions about our incoming patient – the one whose name currently escapes me – when suddenly the smoke alarm in the hallway was going off. I had burned the eggs with no clue as to how I did it. They were _right_ in front of me! Needless to say, any cooking that requires actually turning on the stove is out of bounds. House said he'd rather eat takeout for the next year than have the apartment burn down with him in it. I, on the other hand, could perish in the flames given the fact that I started them. No, there were no actual flames, but there sure was a _lot_ of smoke.

Burnt popcorn's got nothing on the smell left behind by carbonized scrambled eggs, by the way.

In other words, if chemo-brain is like the human mind in a fog, then my mind's hanging out in San Francisco Bay on a cool, humid day. The most frustrating part, though, is how completely random it all is. I can go days at a time with little evidence that my mind has turned to mush, and then out of nowhere I feel like Charlie Gordon from _Flowers for Algernon_. See. You should be impressed with that reference. I am.

_Santos_! That's it. Effie? Enrica? … _Elena_ Santos! That's our patient's name. Yea, me!

Anyway … where was I? Oh, yeah. Cane. Flames. Gotcha.

I sat on the sofa for what seemed like forever trying to reason out the connection between blue flames burning hotter than red and their symbolic meaning to House. Finally, I thought I might have it.

"You think I'm hot?"

"Got it in one" he parroted then checked his watch. "Not bad, either. Only took you fifty-two seconds to reason it out."

I felt anger surge through me. How _dare_ he make fun of me, the bastard! Gift or not, it didn't give him the right to ridicule me! Then I looked at his face. He was being _sincere_. House was honestly pleased that I had figured out the connection without any prodding from him. I felt my cheeks blush under his sympathetic gaze.

"I brought you some word searches and a couple of Sudoku books, too," he said as he flipped the TV on with the remote. His hand grasped mine and rested it on top of his right thigh – we sit that way most nights while watching TV. Anyway, Wilson had recommended the puzzles as a way to ease the effects of chemo-brain. I'll be starting Japanese lessons next week, too. The more I exercise my brain, the less the chemo will affect my head. Or so I hope. I'm starting to worry about just how effective I'm being at work, though both House and Cuddy assure me that I'm doing fine. It's a good thing I went strictly to administrative work. I'd have killed at least half a dozen patients by now, I'm sure.

The introductory Japanese class will be taking the place of my music therapy class. I _hate_ that I have to give it up, but playing the piano's been more frustrating than therapeutic lately. One's fingers need to dance like a ballerina across the keys, but since the neuropathy, mine are more like lumberjacks stomping around in concrete work boots. I really liked that class, too. It made me feel closer to House. Something else we had in common, though I knew I would never achieve his level of expertise, but then his is a natural gift. It's hard to compete with Mother Nature. There's a patient recital scheduled for Friday night – wait, that's tomorrow – but I dropped out of it. Made sense considering. Contrary to what House thinks, I'm not big on deliberately embarrassing myself in front of large groups of people, but I'm still disappointed. I worked _hard_ on that piece.

In other news, House mentioned to me that his mother is considering a permanent move down to Princeton. I'm not quite sure why she's made that decision or how House really feels about it. He wasn't up for sharing much information when he got off the phone with her yesterday afternoon. He looked rather like a salmon that had been bashed over the head when he got off the phone with his mother – stunned and gulping for oxygen. _Not_ something that's easy to do to that man. Two points to Blythe! Who needs Japanese? Clearly she knows how to speak 'House', and to me, that knowledge would be priceless!

**

"Cameron?" House ran his fingers gently on the inside of her left wrist, the one place that seemed to still have a certain degree of sensation. "Wake up. We're here."

Cameron opened her eyes lazily. She couldn't believe that she had fallen asleep in the car on the short trip from the grocery store to the apartment. They had stopped there on their way back from work, and what was supposed to have been a quick, 15-minute, essentials-only, grab and go had turned into an hour long super-shop.

It had been a long Friday for both of them, even with House mysteriously disappearing in the middle of the day to evade his clinic hours. He hadn't done that in a long time, and even Cameron hadn't been able to wheedle his new hiding place out of him. It hadn't mattered much, though. The clinic had been oddly dead most of the day, so for once his absence hadn't caused much of a stir – not even with Cuddy. Nevertheless, their new patient, Elena Santos kept the entire team hopping for most of the day as one seemingly unrelated symptom after another led them down a path to no diagnosis. Thankfully, Cameron's head had been relatively fog-free, and she felt as though she had offered at least a few helpful ideas to the three different differentials they had to run on their patient that day. Taub had offered to stay late and run the most recent set of tests so that House and Cameron could go home. He would page them if he needed them – but only after he called on Thirteen, Kutner, and Foreman first, or such was the bargain he had made with Cuddy after the cane-brandishing pair had left for the day.

While House pulled from the trunk of the car what bags he could easily carry, Cameron unlocked the stairwell door and eyed the staircase to her apartment with a wary eye. Fourteen steps. She had lived in this apartment for nearly six years, ever since she came to Princeton to work with the legendary Dr. Gregory House. Countless times she had sprinted up those fourteen steps with youthful legs and energy and little though as to their height, depth, or construction. They were just wooden steps, after all. Fourteen steps? Oh no. Now they were fourteen rungs of pure evil.

Funny how on some days cancer could change even the most innocuous of tasks into the most insurmountable.

"You got it?" House asked from behind her. She heard the soft rustling of the reusable cloth bags that contained the groceries. Strangely enough, it had been he who had insisted upon such a 'green' alternative now that he had to actually shop for food on a regular basis.

"Yeah. Just gearing up for Mount Everest."

"Left the oxygen tanks at the hospital, I'm afraid. You'll have to do it the old fashioned way."

"Well, then Hilary and Norgay it is," she said referring to the pioneering climbing duo.

"Damn, those crosswords are paying off. Nice allusion!"

"Thanks. You go first, though."

House thought about arguing with her. Climbing steps with a bum foot and a cane was still very new to her, and he would rather stand behind and offer her support as she climbed, but he realized that if she fell, there really wasn't anything he'd be able to do to stop it, and she really hated it when he hovered. Hell, _he_ hated it when he hovered, but there was just something about her that made him want to … never mind.

Draping the handles of the grocery bags over his arm, House braced himself against the handrail and quickly limped up the staircase. It was _not_ done with grace, though there was a certain amount of 'Housian' style to his awkward ascent, and they both accepted that the word 'quick' was a relative term. He wouldn't win any climbing contests … unless they were against her. When House reached the landing, he set the bags on the floor and unlocked the door to her apartment.

"You coming, or are you still acclimating at Base Camp?" he asked impatiently.

"Funny man," she muttered. She wasn't a huge fan of science fiction television, but what she wouldn't do for a transporter right now. Cameron grasped the handrail with her hand. Using the cane to brace herself, she stepped up on the first stair with her good – again, that being a relative term – left foot then dragged the right up next to it. She repeated the process again and again – fourteen times – until she reached the landing and stood next to House who had already taken the groceries inside and returned to the hallway.

"Show off," she muttered. She leaned against the door jamb to catch her breath. Six months ago she would have berated herself for such a pathetic reaction to climbing a single flight of stairs. Now Cameron felt oddly proud that she had maneuvered the complicated ascent without having to stop along the way. Stairs were by far the biggest daily physical challenge that she had to face, and she was thankful that these were the only ones she regularly encountered. If she were a believer, she would have thought that elevators were an engineering marvel gifted from God.

"You expected anything less?"

"Fuck!"

"Apparently so," House said wryly.

"No. It's not you. I just realized that I left my bag in the car, and now I'll have to go get it." Cameron looked back down the stairs, her shoulders slumping at the mere thought of having to traverse the stairs again that night. House's hand closed upon hers when she gripped the railing.

"Go inside. I'll get your bag. The pace at which you move, I'll be standing in the hallway all damn night. Never thought I'd see the day that you'd move more slowly than I do. Gimps 'R Us is taking 'em younger and younger anymore. Shame, really. Curmudgeonly bastards like me have to fight for attention at the meetings now." House was already a third of the way down the stairs before Cameron even thought about protesting. For the most part, they both insisted that she do whatever she was physically capable of doing. It gave her a sense of normalcy and provided him with a need for slothfulness that was as much a part of his makeup as his diagnostic skills. She didn't want to have to rely on him for everything, and he didn't want to be relied upon for everything – the perfect balance. Nevertheless, she was grateful for his offer.

Taking off the head scarf she wore, Cameron wadded it up and tossed it across the room to land on the dining room table. She supposed she should take it to the bedroom and hang it up as she usually did, but she was just too tired to care ton –

The cane in her hand dropped to the wooden floor with a clatter that echoed through the apartment.

Cameron blinked her eyes, thinking that what she saw might be a hallucination – wouldn't that be a fun new symptom – but the image before them remained. There in the corner, near the window where her favorite chair used to rest, sat a gorgeous, black, baby grand piano.

House's piano.

Her steps were cautious as she crossed the distance between the door and the instrument, as much to prevent a fall as to stop the image from disappearing as a rainbow when the sun ducked behind a cloud. She didn't want _this_ pot of gold to elude her. Cameron permitted her fingers to drift across the polished black surface of the case and down across the black and white keys as if she were caressing a lover. Reaching middle C, she pressed lightly on the ivory key. The sound reverberated against the walls of her apartment and back into her ears filling them with the melodious tone of that pitch-perfect single note.

"You're welcome to play it if you want." Cameron jumped at the sound of House's voice in her ear.

Cameron looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes incredulous. "Why?"

He knew she wasn't questioning his offer. "I missed it." He shrugged his shoulders as he always did when he found a question silly. The answer was of course always obvious – to him. "You told me that I was welcome to bring over anything I wanted, and I wanted this." Tossing his cane on her chair which had been unceremoniously shoved into the far corner – they could rearrange the furniture later – he sat down on the bench in front of his 'baby'.

"You didn't duck out on clinic hours at all did you?" Cameron smiled with her understanding. He had been with the piano movers all the time, supervising the transfer of his most beloved possession from his apartment to hers.

"Nope."

"Lisa knew about this, didn't she?"

"Yep. Though if you spread _that_ around the hospital, you are officially on your own. I have a well-earned reputation as a slacker that I must maintain, and I don't need people to know that I actually _told_ Cuddy where I was going to hide for a few hours." House ran his finger tips lightly across the keys, but did not press hard enough for the hammers to strike the strings. It had been weeks – almost two full months, actually – since he had returned to his apartment for his own brand of musical therapy, and he needed to reacquaint himself with the instrument.

Cameron sat the bench beside him and placed her hand on his thigh, effectively stilling his movements. He turned his head to face her. "Why?" The real answer this time, please, her look said.

House sighed. Time for the sharing part. He wanted to. He really did, but … he turned from her to inspect the binding of a book on the shelf behind the piano. "It was time." House all but forced the words from his throat, but he had said them. He just hoped that she understood what he was trying to tell her.

Though they had been sharing the same bed for almost two months, House had gone out of his way to keep his things separate from hers. His clothes still hung in his closet. He still used the bathroom down the hall. Every night he took his books back to the small shelf he had installed in the guest bedroom shortly after his arrival. He lived with her, but he didn't _live_ with her. The only possessions House had kept out for 'all to see' were his guitar and his Playstation 3 – until now.

Wilson had told her years ago that one way to know what was really going on inside of House's head and heart was to 'watch what he does rather than listen to what he says.' Cameron applied this test to the current situation.

'It was time.' His words had been casual, almost nonchalant, as if he had decided to move the 700 pound instrument on a whim. However, the fact that he had moved it at all, and had placed it in such a prominent location in the room, told a different story. This wasn't just her apartment anymore.

It was _theirs_.

"When does the rest arrive?"

"Next weekend. I meet with the movers on Monday for a walk-through. Some things will go to storage. I figure if I haven't needed it in the last three months, I can probably do without it. I'm leaving most of the furniture behind, though."

"Why?" It wasn't as though the place was packed to the gills. They could easily fit in a few of his pieces.

"I offered the apartment to my mother. She's going to stay there until her house sells. Seems she's pretty much set on coming down here, so I might as well kill two birds with the proverbial boulder."

"Is that the only reason why you –"

"No." He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. "Like I said … it was _time_." It was the only answer he would give her.

She took what he offered and kissed him. A soft, lingering kiss that left them both breathless and wanting more.

"Enough of that, you bald minx!" Her hands had started to wander beneath his t-shirt. He pushed as far away from her as the narrow bench would allow him. "If memory serves, you have a recital tonight."

"I dropped out. I told you that."

"Private recital, my dear Cameron." House gestured to the piano. "Why else do you think I insisted this be delivered and tuned _today_? You've been working on that piece for weeks. Even if no one else gets to hear it tonight, I will."

He stood and hobbled to chair. Picking up his cane he leaned against it next to the piano and indicated that she should begin.

"House, I really don't think this is such a good idea." Apprehension rang clear in her voice. He was so good at playing that she didn't want him to realize how incompetent she had become.

"A _good_ idea?" House actually snorted. "You fell in love with _me_, remember. Good ideas left you abandoned in the dust long ago." He pointed again at the keyboard. "Play!"

The look she gave him was part exasperation, part doubt, but she settled herself in the center of the bench nonetheless. Cameron ran her fingers through a few awkward chords to get the feel of the keys, took a settling breath, and began to play.

She wasn't bad, House thought. Oh, she hit more than her fair share of off keys, but that was due to her deadened fingers more than a lack of a musical 'ear'. Once her hands regained their strength and dexterity, it was only a matter of time before she –

"Why did you stop? You were doing fine …" she glared at him. "Okay, maybe not _fine_, but it didn't suck. I could still tell it was Chopin."

Cameron dropped both her hands and her eyes to her lap. "I can't remember the notes," she admitted. "I had them all memorized, but it's like they're not even in here anymore." She smacked the side of her head in frustration. She was an intelligent woman for Pete's sake! College educated. A highly respected doctor! Now she had a hard time stringing two sentences together without having to stop to remember the words she wanted to say.

"You're tired," House reminded her. "Your brain always goes to shit when you're this tired." Cameron scooted over as he sat down next to her and place his fingers on the keys. "Put your hands on top of mine.

"What? Why?" She looked at him as if it was the most bizarre request he had ever asked of her.

"Do you have to question _everything_? Oh wait. I know the answer to that one. Silly me." He stared her down with his blue eyes. "For once don't argue, just do it … please."

She still looked at him like he was crazy, but she scooted in close to him, her thigh to his, and did what he asked of her. It was an awkward way to sit, but their hands looked comfortable one on top of the other.

"Now close your eyes." He whispered in her ear, and she found her eyes closing without a word of protest.

"Wow. She really can do as she's told."

"Screw you, House." Cameron kept her eyes closed.

"We're both too tired for that, unfortunately, so you'll have to settle for this."

House pressed his fingers to the keys, slowly at first so she could get a sense of his movements, but he gradually picked up the pace until they played at the appropriate tempo for the piece.

The strains of Chopin's _Prelude in A Major Op. 28 No. 7_ filled the apartment and drifted through Cameron's soul, soothing it in way that no other words or gestures would have been capable of doing. House's fingers were warm and supple beneath hers, a direct contrast to the tingling and weakness that she had learned to live with on a daily basis. His movements were dexterous and sure, and her heart began to sing with the knowledge that he was doing this for her.

As the echoes of the final chords died away, House pressed his lips to the smile that had spread across hers. She opened her eyes, staring into the blue of his. "Feel better?" he asked.

"That was … wonderful!" she whispered. House took her declaration as his answer.

"Good!" He stood up, grabbed his cane, and limped to the kitchen where their groceries waited to be unpacked. "Listening to Kutner and Taub prattle on all day about missed diagnoses has left me starving. Maybe now we can eat."

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**Feeback? I hope that you found this worth the wait. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter.**


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